You or Your Memory
by youaremarvelous
Summary: AU. Jason didn't know why he was resurrected. After a year of living in a catatonic state with the al Ghul's and a subsequent year in therapy learning how to be human again, he was still no closer to an answer. The truth was, Jason didn't know why he was alive. He didn't know how to find the answers, and it tortured him in ways that damnable crowbar could never touch.
1. Chapter 1

Most of the time, Jason remembered it in flashes: the smell of musty fabric, the feeling of dirt under his nails, the acrid taste of embalming fluids in his mouth. The scenes were disjointed and inscrutable, they played like a poorly shot art film on his eyelids.

He has getting better, though. Aside from the nightmares and occasional lapses in memory, he'd learned to deal with the implausibility of his situation, or at the very least, to ignore it.

He'd slowly come to accept the numbing solace of routine. Even when Jason's day consisted solely of something as devastatingly mundane as finally forcing himself to the grocery store, it was okay because it was normal. Despite everything, he had become part of the living world. It was easy to separate himself from his resurrection when he was preoccupied. If he even thought about it at all, he'd tell himself it was just a story he read when he was a kid or a metaphor that resonated so deeply that it became indistinguishable from his own existence.

Those were the good days, when he didn't have to ask questions of his life, when he didn't have to believe in his death.

Today wasn't a good day.

Jason woke up screaming. He'd been having a nightmare, the same one he always had. Even as wakefulness fully returned, the smell of soil was still thick in his nostrils and his nails stung with unseen splinters. Jason pushed it away, unwilling to contain the unwanted memories. 'Not today,' he told himself, 'not any day.'

He curled into his side and covered his face with his hands, sucking in air until his lungs stretched to capacity. He wasn't in a coffin. His apartment was a total shithole: it was cramped and dark and smelled like mildew when it rained, but it wasn't six feet underground, and he could breathe here.

Jason exhaled and reached blindly for his phone on the nearby coffee table. He pushed himself up against the back of his threadbare couch and checked for messages, wincing at the sudden illumination. No one had contacted him. It wasn't surprising, he hadn't exactly set out to make friends since he was unwittingly thrust back into the world of the living. Still, he had a disturbing impulse to talk on days like today: days when his death loomed like a threat in the periphery of his senses. So, despite himself, he was disappointed.

It was raining. Jason could hear the insistent patters against the perpetually fogged over kitchen window. He combed his hand through his hair and bent his head back to stare at the water-stained ceiling. He waited for it to cave under the weight of the deluge. It had been raining _that_ night, too.

The smell of soil flared again and he scratched absentmindedly at his arms. His skin felt too new, too tight. His long-faded scars blistered under his fingertips, the grooves of a hundred untold stories swelled into angry red welts. Jason forced his hands from his arms and shoved them between his knees, bracing them there with his thighs.

"It's too early for this shit," he moaned to no one, bowing over his knees in desperation.

His ears were starting to ring. He rocked back and forth, back and forth, as the thin, metallic frequency morphed into a shrill cry—a child's voice, vaguely familiar, but distorted, unearthly. The distant scream swelled at an alarming rate, ascending in a maddening crescendo that darkened the corners of the room. He shot up from the couch when the noise had reached an intolerable din and scrambled around the apartment, turning on every lamp he owned until all traces of blue morning light were unearthed from the shadowy recesses of his home.

The noise dissipated quickly. His head throbbed in its absence and his mouth tasted like copper, but compared to the fits he'd had in the first few years following his rebirth, this episode was minor.

Jason swallowed thickly and picked up his phone again. He rubbed his thumb against the glass, tracing circles into the oily surface until finally relenting and hitting the home button. He reopened his texts, found that there were no new messages, and tossed the phone on the couch in utter disgust.

He picked up the remote from the coffee table and flicked on the TV. He'd found it at a thrift shop a couple weeks ago: it was small and ancient, but with rabbit ears, it could pick up a couple channels with semi-decent regularity. He considered it a luxury. He turned the volume to max capacity, blocking out the sound of rain and distant sirens. There was an old Frankenstein movie playing, he could hear screams of, "it's alive, it's alive," as he padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Jason stepped over the side of the tub and leaned his head into the cascading water. The temperature never really got as hot as he'd like, but that was probably a blessing in disguise. Some days, he thought he might boil off his skin if left to his own devices. Not as a form of self-harm, just to feel the pain that assured his flesh was his own. He was still having trouble trusting this new body and the promise of existence it signified. He couldn't remember what it was like to be dead, so how could he be certain that this was living?

On the really bad days, he wondered if he had been lied to; maybe he hadn't died at all. Maybe he had been poisoned or kidnapped or abducted by aliens. Then he would waste days or even weeks obsessively following trails that lead to nowhere. The truth was, Jason didn't know why he was alive. He didn't know how to find the answers, and it tortured him in ways that damnable crowbar could never touch.

Jason turned off the tap and shook his wet hair out of his face. He grabbed the towel from the rack and sniffed it before wrapping it around his waist and trudging back into the tiny living room. He fell gracelessly into the dented cushions, not caring that his body was still drenched. He was too tired to towel off, the "episodes" always left him drained.

"You have created a monster and it will destroy you." A voice from the television warned. Jason sighed and reached for the remote, changing the station to some cheery jingle about thankful families and artificially engorged turkeys. It was almost Thanksgiving. He hadn't even thought about it. The realization left him cold.

He wasn't sure which was worse: the stupid monster movie or the horror that was this TV family's over-the-top acting, so he hit the power button and slumped back into the couch, trying to avoid his reflection in the blank screen.

His eyes drooped as he sat there in silence. He considered allowing sleep to take him—he was so damn tired—but his unconscious mind was too quick to dig up unwanted thoughts, and the screams from earlier still echoed distantly in his ears.

Jason yawned and rubbed his hands over his face. He pulled himself up from the couch and padded to the kitchen. He considered making a pot of coffee or some breakfast, but after pulling open the fridge and rummaging through all the cabinets, he found he had the ingredients for neither.

"Great, time for another fucking grocery run," Jason said to himself as he walked to the bedroom to change. In therapy, he'd adapted to inhabiting public spaces again in a relatively short amount of time. He still preferred to run errands at night—when the streets were less crowded and the people were less exuberant— but overall, he could assimilate with the best of them.

Still, visits to the grocery store were particularly challenging. He wasn't exactly sure why. He figured it might be due to some subconscious memory of the stress it caused him as a child. He remembered trips there with his Mom, being coerced into hiding things in his pockets, or returning items to the shelves because they couldn't afford them. It was embarrassing.

It had been on a trip to the grocery store when Jason first saw his Mom from an outside perspective. She had dragged him there while drunk off her ass, which wasn't unusual at the time. They'd had some stupid argument over something trivial like what type of bread to get and she'd smacked him across the face. Jason hadn't cared—he was no stranger to her violence—but to his surprise, a random woman ran over and grabbed him by his shoulders. She asked if he was okay and lost her shit at his Mom. She'd yelled, "you call yourself a mother?"

'Oh,' Jason remembered thinking at the time. 'Parents aren't supposed to hit their kids.' He'd known that, of course, but somehow he'd never realized it applied to him.

Or maybe it had nothing to do with any of that at all. Maybe it was just the environment of the place. People were never so oblivious to the inevitability of their death than when facing down the Nutrition Facts on a box of organic graham crackers.

Jason pulled a t-shirt over his head, ignoring the way it gaped around his biceps and neck. He'd gotten skinny in the psych ward. They allowed him to work out sometimes, but never as much as he wanted. They claimed it was for his health, but he knew better. They were afraid, afraid of potentially having to restrain a strong and agile crazy person.

Jason fastened his jeans around his waist and shrugged on a jacket. He couldn't really blame his size on them anymore. He'd been out for a little over a year; he could be bigger if he wanted. The working out came easily enough—he enjoyed pushing himself to the breaking point, striving till his muscles protested from the abuse—but eating was still an issue. He could cook just fine—he'd learned from an early age—but there was just something about food that still bothered him.

He wasn't an idiot, though. He knew he needed to eat to live. So he put his wallet in his pocket, stuffed his feet into his shoes, and exited his apartment into the dimly lit hallway. He walked quickly with his head down, taking the steps two at a time when he reached the stairwell. He hated running into his neighbors and having to engage in small talk. Pretending that life was full of sunshine and rainbows was something Dick excelled at, but it made Jason's skin crawl.

'Why am I thinking about _him_?' Jason wondered as he passed through his complex's lobby and into the street. It was colder outside than he'd realized. He zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands into his pockets. It looked like it might snow. He considered running upstairs and grabbing a hat and maybe some gloves, but the store was only a few blocks away and he'd already made it this far, so he pressed onward.

There had been much colder nights than this while patrolling in Gotham. Of course, back then he was much better outfitted for it, and he always had the promise of a cup of cocoa and a warm spot in front of the fireplace when he got home. Jason shuddered and picked up his pace. It almost embarrassed him to think about how pampered he'd allowed himself to become.

"Out in this cold with wet hair? Have I taught you nothing, Jason?" A scolding female voice sounded behind him.

Jason froze and his heart jumped into his throat. "Talia?" He asked as he turned around, "what the hell are you doing here?"

The woman crossed her arms across her chest and shrugged, "I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd say 'hi.'"

"In the neighborhood?" Jason asked incredulously. "What for?"

Talia didn't answer. Jason didn't expect her to. Instead, she closed the distance between them and pushed his damp hair out of his face. "You're not properly dressed for this weather, do you want to get sick?"

"You don't get sick from being cold, Tal. Trust me, I'd know."

Talia hummed to herself. "Still, I'd feel better if you got in the car and warmed up a little."

"Thanks for the offer, but considering the relationship you have with my ex-foster Dad, I think that'd be a little weird."

"That's not what I'm suggesting," Talia swatted playfully at his arm. "We can go get breakfast, you look like you could use a good meal."

Jason tried to think of a reason to say no, but the truth was, he could use the company, if only to get out of his own head for a few minutes. "Sure," he relented, allowing Talia to slip a hand on his shoulder and guide him to the car. He didn't mind letting her lead him around, it was a holdover habit from when he'd lacked the ability to make any decisions for himself. "But I choose the place."

Jason was impressed that Talia didn't immediately wrinkle her nose in disgust when they stepped into the diner. The place was old and decrepit, the food was too greasy and none of the waitresses were hot, but it was close to his apartment and it was one of the few public places in which Jason felt mostly comfortable.

"Two coffees," Jason shouted towards the woman behind the counter as he led Talia to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant.

"I know you don't want to tell me why you're in Gotham and that's—fine, I guess, but don't I at least deserve to know why you wanted to talk with me before you left?" Jason asked as they slid into their seats.

Talia waited to answer as two steaming cups of coffee and a couple of sticky, laminated menus were plopped down on their table.

"We spent a year together, Jason, can't I just want to visit with you?"

"You can, but sentimentality isn't really your style."

"I think you're confusing me for my Father."

"Well, you two are more alike than you'd like to admit."

Talia unfolded the napkin wrapped around the cutlery and examined her fork. "Do you really think that?"

"Sometimes," Jason said, turning his face to the dirty window to stare at the dead flies littering the sill.

"Everyone's out to get you, aren't they, Jason?"

"Look, I'm not going to sit here and get scolded—"

"That's not what I meant to say," Talia corrected. "It's just that—"

Jason sighed, "what?"

"I'm no longer certain that what I'm doing is helping you."

"And what is it that you're doing exactly?"

"Allowing you this—this freedom. I don't know if you're ready for it."

"Freedom?"

"To live alone, to not visit with your doctor, to—"

"I do fine on my own." Jason said simply.

"_This_ is what you call doing 'fine?'" Talia demanded, gesturing to his rumpled clothes, his damp, matted hair, his sunken eyes.

Jason rolled his eyes under the scrutiny. "What's with this sudden guilt, Tal? You help me, alright? You're the only one that actually listens."

"Yes, but perhaps I shouldn't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not easily fooled, Jason. I can see how tired you are. You're having nightmares again."

"So?"

"So you're not getting better. Clearly, whatever it is that you're doing, it's not working."

"I'm fine, I'm—I'm coping."

Talia only sighed.

Jason rubbed a hand over his face and leaned an elbow on the table. "What do you want from me?"

"You know the answer to that."

"I'm not going back to the loony bin. I'm not crazy."

"That's not what I'm suggesting." Talia said, sipping her coffee and glancing at Jason's pale, drawn face. "Although it wouldn't exactly be out of line. You look like you haven't slept in weeks."

"I've slept."

"You don't even own a bed."

"I have a couch, and I thought I asked you to stop having your cronies trace me."

Talia shrugged and sipped her coffee, "you asked..."

"Well now I'm telling. I don't need you checking up on me."

"History begs to differ." Talia said simply.

"Right." Jason said, flicking the saltshaker and watching it glide near the edge of the table. "So sorry to burden you."

"You're not a burden." Talia said, picking up the salt and placing it back in front of the napkin dispenser. "But I retain my right to keep tabs. I worry about you being alone."

"Dr. Shelley said it was fine."

"She said a lot of things and I find her trust in you endearing, but unlike her, I know you."

"I'm not like Bruce, I don't keep things bottled up until I explode."

"I'm not so convinced."

"I'm not," Jason insisted, desperate to make himself believe it. "I'm not like him."

Talia nodded sympathetically and placed a hand on Jason's fist. "I know you're not."

"Because I'm not."

"I know."

The two sat in silence for a while, looking everywhere but at each other as the sounds of clinking silverware and low chattering voices filled the space between them.

"Maybe you're right, maybe I shouldn't keep tracking you." Talia relented.

"Daddy finally catch wind of your unhealthy obsession?"

"It has nothing to do with my Father."

"Finally realized you can't use me to get to Batman, then?

Talia shifted in her seat. "Look, I readily admit that, initially, that was my reason for taking you into my keeping."

"Mmhmm," Jason hummed, taking a sip of his coffee.

"But despite what you might think. I'm not heartless, Jason. Even I can't spend a year tending to someone without growing some kind of attachment."

"Wow, Tal, you're breaking my heart."

"God knows why I care, you certainly don't make it easy."

"Yeah, that's what my Pops always said, minus the first part."

"There's no end to your parent issues, are there?"

"You're one to talk."

Talia smiled and brushed her hair behind her ear. "At least my father knows I'm alive."

Jason rolled his eyes. "That would hurt if my real dad wasn't dead or if I considered Bruce to be one."

"Jason—" Talia started, but she stopped herself, deciding to take one fight at a time. "I don't think you should be living alone."

Jason's face fell immediately as he prepared to retread what felt like an age-old argument. "Where do you propose I go? Ol' Pops al Ghul kicked me out, if you remember."

"There are other options."

"Is that so?"

"Bruce—"

"You're not serious—" Jason cut her off, curling a fist on the table.

"Don't you think it's time he knew you were alive? You've been in Gotham for two years now."

"I don't think you can count that first year." Jason said and Talia's face twitched with an almost imperceptible wince.

"Regardless," she shook her head, gathering herself, "he can offer you the help that you deny you need."

"And what kind of help is that exactly? Emotionally repressed conversations? Looks of disappointment? Oh, oh, I know: reminders of what a failure I am!"

"Bruce still cares about you." Talia replied, pausing when Jason scoffed. She knew the boy would bristle at Batman's mention, but his hunched shoulders belied a lingering insecurity concerning his surrogate father that assured her conclusion had been correct: Jason wanted Bruce's acceptance, even if he was completely loathe to admit it.

"I'm not going back there, Talia. I've had enough tough love for a lifetime."

Both Talia and Jason leaned back when the waitress—'Mary' her yellowed nametag indicated—came by and refilled their mugs. They affirmed that, no, they weren't ready to order, and then they sat in silence for a moment, watching the swirling, diaphanous fumes while they waited for Mary to get back out of earshot.

"He would help you if you asked." Talia said finally, breaking the silence.

"I know."

"You know, and—?"

"And I don't want his help." Jason concluded simply, picking up his steaming coffee cup and blowing on it.

"I don't believe you," Talia insisted, eyes hard and impenetrable.

"Oh no?"

"You do want his help, but what you need is something he can't give, so you'd rather run away like a dog with its tail between its legs than face up to the truth."

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair," Talia spat before she could stop herself. She paused, cringed, and placed her hand on Jason's arm in apology. "Your death wasn't fair," she amended, "for anyone."

Jason rolled his eyes, "I didn't see anyone else in that grave with me." He took a sip of his coffee. It burned his tongue. "Of course, I couldn't see much of anything when I was digging my way out."

"So you blame Bruce for everything?"

Jason rubbed his burnt tongue against the roof of his mouth. "No, I don't blame him for—for that. It wasn't his fault."

"It wasn't yours either, Jason."

"Sure," Jason said, voice uncertain. "I know that."

Talia leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. "Well if not him, then what about your brother?

"Dick? He's not my brother."

"I know your relationship with him is strained—"

"More like nonexistent," Jason muttered under his breath. He was acting like a child, he could feel it, but he couldn't stop. Talk of the Bat family always brought out the worst in him. "Where's this coming from, anyway? Sick of playing babysitter?"

"I told you, I'm worried."

"Worried about what? That I'm backtracking? That my progress has bottomed out? They didn't even think I'd be able to speak again, cut me some fucking slack."

"Whether you admit it or not, something is going on with you. You don't seem like yourself, and I don't think following your current routine is going to change anything."

"Don't seem like myself?" Jason asked. His brain was stuck on the phrase. Talia continued to speak, but he didn't hear it. His mind was whirling, and he couldn't control it.

'Not like himself.' Who was he exactly? He didn't know— that was one of the questions he tried to avoid answering. He didn't trust his memories, they were too malleable, he didn't even trust reality half the time. There were no answers to be found here, everyone was as clueless as he was, but they pretended not to be. He remembered being like that, not having to question who he was, or why he was—just simply being. Now it wasn't so easy, now his existence needed answers, but there were none to be found. They were still in his grave, waiting for him, taunting him to come back and retrieve them.

His heart thundered against his chest and a distant, high-pitched scream sounded in his ear. He couldn't get enough air, the smell of greasy food and cigarette smoke was too dense, it was suffocating him. He was sure Talia was saying his name, but he couldn't make his mouth move to tell her he was okay. He thought he might vomit, he thought he might _die_.

He felt pressure around his wrist and then he was being wrenched to the edge of the booth. "And you question why I worry," a voice echoed in his ear before his head was pushed between his knees.

"What's wrong with him?" A muffled voice sounded from his left, cutting through the shrieking siren in his brain.

"Nothing. He's fine, can you bring us some water and a cloth?"

He didn't hear a response, just the squeaking of rubber soles on linoleum. The fog was starting to clear from his brain. He was nauseous and his face felt hot, but soon the scuffed tile floor came into clearer focus and the buzzing diner chatter forced it's way back into his consciousness. "Sorry," he managed. His mouth was dry and his tongue got stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Talia didn't reply, she just pressed a cold, wet cloth onto his forehead, wiping it across both cheeks before moving it to the nape of his neck. It felt comforting, like something his Mom used to do before the drugs took her completely.

"Can you sit up?" Talia asked after a while. Jason wasn't sure how long they'd stayed like that, his mind was having trouble keeping up and he thought he might have dozed off.

He nodded and straightened. His vision darkened for a moment, but quickly righted itself again.

"You're bone white," Talia said and pushed a glass of water towards him. There was orange juice on the table, and Jason couldn't stop fixating on it. He didn't know when it had gotten there and the inconsistency bothered him.

"Jason," Talia said, pulling him from his thoughts. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Uh…"

"I want you to drink the water and then some of the orange juice, your blood sugar is too low."

"It has nothing to do with my blood sugar." Jason said, but he took a sip of the water, anyway. He was so unbelievably thirsty.

Talia watched as he gulped down the water, and then placed the orange juice in front of him. "Finish this and then we can order you a meal."

"If you're expecting me to put up a fight, I'm not going to," Jason said, picking up the orange juice and swallowing a mouthful.

"Is that supposed to reassure me that you're capable of living alone? You just had a fucking panic attack, Jason. What happens when no one's there to help you?"

"It hardly ever happens."

"That doesn't answer my question," Talia said, slamming her fist on the table.

"What the fuck do you want from me? I cope. I take hot showers, I work out, I lie on the floor, I do whatever the fuck I have to but I get through it." Jason replied, anger mounting. "What I don't do is go crawling back to the guy that let my killer go and then _replaced_ me. I never do that. I'd never _want_ to do it."

Talia straightened in understanding. "So you know about that."

"How could I not know? I have a television. Despite what people think, I read the newspaper. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out."

"I know it's difficult—"

"And I still don't understand why you're so hell-bent on me going back to him. I know you have an ulterior motive, Talia. My brain might've been scrambled, but I'm not stupid. There's a reason you're here and there's a reason you came to see me."

Talia said nothing, just folded her arms on the table, face unreadable.

"And you still don't want to tell me. Fine, that's fine." Jason said, pulling himself from the table. His knees wobbled but he managed to stay upright and force his way out of the diner into the cold outside air. He slumped on the curb, ignoring the jingling of bells indicating someone following him out.

Talia didn't say a word as she lowered herself next to him. It was a nostalgic feeling to have her sitting by his side, the wind whipping their hair.

"I'm angry," Jason said, eyes pointed forward, watching strangers scurry by, holding their loved ones close to ward off the cold.

"I can see that." Talia agreed.

"I mean, I've been dealt some shitty cards," Jason clarified, "and I'm angry about that."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

Jason sighed and rolled his shoulders, "Forget."

"Does that work?"

"Hell no, but it's all I've got."

"Maybe not." Talia replied. It was cryptic, but she didn't offer an explanation, and Jason didn't ask for one.

A black car rolled up and Talia stood up, brushing debris from her coat. "That's my ride."

"Leaving so soon?" Jason asked, pushing himself up from the curb. "Why don't we go out and get something harder than coffee?"

Talia watched the boy. He was putting forth great effort to appear normal, but her well-trained eye could still spot the tremors in his arms and the sweat on his brow. "You're underage."

"Aw, c'mon, Tal. You're a lousy villain, you know that?"

Talia's mouth quirked into a smile and she cupped Jason's face with her hand. "You know how to contact me." She said before leaning in and gently kissing his cheek.

"Yeah, yeah," Jason said, quirking a half smile as Talia made her way to the car.

She rolled down the window once she'd closed the door. "I mean it, Jason!" She called. "Think about what we discussed."

"Not on your life," Jason mumbled to himself, throwing up a halfhearted wave as the car rolled away.

He felt drained from the encounter. He still needed to go to the grocery store, but he decided to go in the evening, when the streets were less busy. 'Of course, that means I'll have to be extra watchful to avoid any pesky caped crusaders.' He thought, frowning.

The walk back to his apartment was blessedly short. He stopped by the mail room on his way, picking up his newspaper and a few bills. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and sifted through the letters as he bound up the steps. Floor 3, Room F: he knew the way by memory. He pulled the key from his pocket when he neared the door, pushing it into the lock and turning it with a pause.

It was already unlocked. He swore he'd locked it, he could forget a lot of things, but never that. Locking the door was as base an instinct as breathing. He knew he wouldn't have neglected to do it.

Jason looked up and down the hallways, mildly satisfied that he hadn't been followed, before placing a gentle grip on the handle and turning it slowly. His whole body tensed as he pushed the door open. He threw his back into the wall, fists raised as he moved through the apartment, turning into each room, searching each corner. After checking the closets and the bathtub, he let his posture relax a little. Whomever it was, they were gone by now.

He was still uneasy. He couldn't stop thinking about the possibility of a hidden bomb, as unlikely as it may be. Jason knew it was probably just maintenance replacing a light bulb or something equally as mundane, but he found himself ripping the cushions off the couch, anyway, pulling every item out of the cabinets and drawers, and pushing all the furniture to the middle of the room.

Soon he collapsed on a discarded couch cushion, sweating more from anxiety than exertion. 'This is not my day,' Jason thought as he concentrated on taking deep breaths in an attempt to gather himself.

Jason pulled himself up and made his way back to the hallway closet. He dug through all his coat pockets before turning his attention to the mound of journals and self-help books stacked on the floor beneath an extra blanket. There was a time when he would've scoffed at people obsessed with "self discovery." It was indulgent and representative of upper-class malaise: you don't worry about the purpose of your life when you're too busy jacking tires to sustain it. But here he was with these shameful titles shoved in the back of his closet like a porn stash.

He bit his bottom lip, yanked the blanket away, and instantly froze. "The fuck, Talia," he moaned to no one and slumped to his knees. There was a handgun, just sitting there atop a book about "Man's Search for Meaning."

He knew it was Talia's doing, this was just like her. She would trick him with kind words—con him into believing in her humanity—and then she would pull a stunt like this: something so incredibly selfish and disconcerting that he felt his heart immediately harden against her. To give a mentally unstable person a weapon—he didn't know if she intended him to use it on himself or others.

His knee-jerk reaction was to throw it out the window, but the idea of some kid picking it up and shooting himself or his friend made his stomach turn, so he pulled the stack of books forward—letting them pool around his knees—and wrapped the gun in the discarded blanket. Once it was securely bound, he placed it in the corner of the closet and re-stacked the books around it. It was sloppy, but it would suffice until he found a way to get it back to Talia, destroy it, or both.

Jason slammed the closet door shut and leaned against the opposite wall, combing his hair back with his hand as he exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Tell Talia she can go fuck herself!" He yelled into his empty apartment.

He sat there for a while, purveying the upheaval in his home, swallowing back his embarrassment. Something this small would never have bothered him before. He missed his old cavalier attitude—the feeling that death couldn't touch him.

He gripped the wall and pulled himself to his feet, toeing off his shoes and leaving them in the middle of the hallway as he made his way back to the living room. He flicked on the overhead and pushed the couch back to the wall, stopping in his task of replacing cushions to turn on the television. This time it was the old Peanuts Thanksgiving movie playing. Jason smiled despite himself as Charlie Brown lamented, "Holidays always depress me."

He stood there for a while in the middle of the room, overloaded mind spacing as he stared at the TV screen. 'Mail,' his brain supplied randomly, and then he was traipsing around his upturned apartment, trying to figure out where he'd tossed it. When he found the letters at the front door, he halfway expected there to be an unmarked envelope with a cryptic message. Of course, there was none. Instead, his eye caught the front page of the newspaper. "Batman and Robin Stop Death Cult Scheme," the headline read in black, bold letters.

He ignored the bills and scooped up the paper, eyes glued to the page as he marched to the brightly lit living room. 'I don't care,' he told himself as he unfolded the newspaper with trembling fingers. 'I don't fucking care.'

He stared at the image on the page: Batman perched on the side of a building, looking proud beside a costumed young boy, backlit by the full moon. 'That's Robin,' his mind reminded him as he blinked at the picture.

Jason tossed the paper into the kitchen trashcan before he had time to fully process it. He would've brought it down to the dumpster, but he didn't think he could handle being social should the need arise. Instead, he went back to the couch and turned the television volume as high as it would go. He sat there, back stiff and nails digging into his knees as hot tears dripped down his cheeks.

"Fuck," Jason choked. He couldn't even hear himself over Peppermint Patty's bitching.

Somehow he'd managed to fall sleep. He didn't remember the exact moment it happened, just that one second he was curled on his side—fighting the urge to dig the newspaper out of the trashcan—and the next, he was waking up to "Planes, Train, and Automobiles" and feeling marginally more sane.

He lifted himself up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and checking the time on his phone. It was half past 9 and all he'd managed to do was commune with an evil lady, tear his apartment apart, and have an emotional breakdown over the surrogate Father he supposedly didn't care about. 'Dr. Shelley would be so proud.' He thought, making his way to the bedroom and tripping over his forgotten shoes.

Jason pulled his favorite red hoodie over his head before layering his jacket over it. It was later than he'd usually go out—he wasn't scared of the streets; hell, they were practically a second home to him; but the night was when the Bat and his consorts were on patrol, and Jason tried to avoid contact with them at all costs. Still, he was determined to do at least one productive thing today, even if finally going to the store and making himself eat barely qualified.

He shoved his feet back into his shoes on the way to the door and fingered the key in his pocket before peering out the peephole into the hall. Finding it empty, he reached for the doorknob, only to stand there, frozen in place. He looked back at the closet. He thought about taking the gun with him—imagined what the metal might feel like against his skin—and his breath felt cold in his chest.

Jason shook his head and pushed his way into the hallway, locking the door behind him and checking it three times. He half-jogged the three blocks to the nearest store, happy to get as much distance as possible between him and the handgun in his hallway closet.

Fat white snowflakes floated down and got stuck to his eyelashes. Jason stuffed his hands into his pockets and smiled at the sky, watching the snow glistening in the city's light. The cold in Gotham was relentless, but his head felt clear for the first time in a while. He missed this: feeling like the city belonged to him, like nothing could touch him.

The shining neon lights of the store approached all too quickly. It was mostly empty inside, though, and for that, Jason was grateful. He picked up a basket and wandered the aisles listlessly, halfway wishing he had put any sort of forethought into what he needed.

He grabbed a box of pasta off a shelf and tossed it in his basket, glancing up in time to see three guys around his age slink to the back of the store near the beer and wine coolers. Jason knew he should ignore them and finish his shopping, but old habits kicked in and he found himself drifting towards the group, pretending to read labels as he listened in on their conversation.

"Just do it, man. Don't be such a pussy." A tall boy with a neck tattoo said, barely even trying to conceal his voice.

"I'd do your Mom's pussy." A kid with a buzz cut and blue hoodie interjected from the side.

"Shut up, dude." The tall boy said, pushing his friend back by the shoulder. "That's fucking nasty."

"Yeah, have you seen his Mom?" A kid with red cheeks and curly brown hair snickered.

Jason watched as a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and yoga pants skirted around the group, mumbling, "excuse me," when she pulled open the freezer door and it bumped Buzz Cut.

The boy looked over his shoulder and eyed the woman, miming stroking his dick to his buddies before turning around and placing his palm on the open freezer door. He slammed it shut, barely missing her hand when she withdrew it with a yelp.

"What's your problem, Lady?" He asked, stepping towards her with a murderous look.

Jason's body tensed as he watched over the shelf. He thought the boys were just in here to steal some beer: a crime, sure, but relatively harmless. The way they were carrying on didn't make sense. They should be acting as quiet and nondescript as possible—not trying to assault some random woman.

Jason casually walked out from between the cereal and chips. He acted oblivious as he placed himself between the boys and the woman, feigning intense interest in the frozen meals. The woman took her chance to take off towards the front of the store, but Buzz Cut remained undeterred, brushing Jason's shoulder as he held pursuit.

Jason grabbed his forearm and pulled him back. "Hey man, back off," He warned, voice low and calm.

"Who the fuck are you?" Buzz Cut wrenched his arm from Jason's grip, obviously annoyed by his interference.

"You think it makes you tough to rough up some innocent lady?" Jason asked, ignoring the question.

"What are you, her fucking husband?"

"Look, why don't you and your friends just go back home, jerk each other off, and cry about how you're too ugly to get girlfriends."

Jason barely managed to dodge the punch Red Cheeks hurled at his head. The freezer door exploded into glass shards and someone started screaming to call the police.

"You guys need to chill the fuck out and go home!" Jason yelled, swinging his elbow into Neck Tattoo's stomach when he tried to grab him by the throat. The boy fell to his knees with a gasp, struggling to catch his breath.

"Nah, not really feeling that," Buzz Cut said, brandishing a knife and stepping around Red Cheeks who was busy wailing over his bleeding hand.

Jason fought the urge to roll his eyes, but froze when he heard the squeak of shoes on linoleum behind him. Buzz Cut used this brief distraction to lunge forward, but Jason sidestepped easily. He whirled around to see two older looking bulked up guys blocking the aisle, doing their best to look stupid and menacing.

"Of fucking course," Jason sighed, lifting his fists in defense. Batman would've never made this mistake: he'd have assumed the baddies would have back up, and then he'd devise some brilliant scheme to outwit them, rather than just take them down by brute force. Jason was rusty, though, and anyway, he was a street kid at heart. He preferred to act first, ask questions later. Decisively _not_ like Batman.

The new guys wasted no time in attacking. Jason deflected their punches, forearms aching from the impact. 'What the fuck are these guys _on_?' He thought, grunting when he blocked a hit and the force sent him slamming into a shelf of juice. Big plastic bottles fell to the ground and burst, splashing the tiles with purple and red.

Another fist came rocketing by his head and Jason whipped around—successfully avoiding it—but slipping in the juice and falling flat on his back. He lay there blinking, disoriented and still just long enough for a hard kick to meet his side. Jason coughed at the impact, tasting copper in his mouth. He rolled when another foot tried to find him and kicked out his legs, sending the two guys toppling to the floor.

Jason heard a woman screaming at the front of the store as he scrambled back to his feet. He quickly took stock and realized that Buzz Cut and Neck Tattoo were missing. "Shit," he cursed and grabbed a hold of the nearest rack, pulling it down on the meat-heads for a momentary distraction. He ran off in the opposite direction, not bothering to see if he was being pursued as he skirted around a corner and grabbed a broom off the wall.

"Let her go," He yelled as he approached the front of the store, broom brandished in front of him like a spear. He almost dropped it when he saw the blonde woman sitting on the checkout conveyor belt, legs crossed with a smile as Buzz Cut kissed her neck.

"Dude, she's way too old for you," Jason grimaced, glancing to his right at a handful of hunched and scared looking pedestrians. Neck Tattoo stood over them, tapping a hammer menacingly in his open palm.

Buzz Cut kissed Blonde's neck one more time, nipping at her ear before picking up his knife off the counter. He pressed it to the woman's neck, sending her into an eruption of giggles, before turning around and pointing it at Jason.

"If the knife comes with neck kisses I'll pass," Jason said, holding the broom in front of his chest.

"What, are you going to sweep the floor, princess?" Buzz Cut mocked, rushing forward.

Jason dodged him easily, jutting the end of the broom into the kid's stomach. The boy bent over with a gasp to try and catch his breath, and Jason took the opportunity to slip the broom against his neck, pushing him to the wall and pinning his wrists there with his forearms. Jason growled through gritted teeth as he pushed the broom handle against the kid's neck. He heard the knife clatter to the ground, but waited until he felt the boy's body slacken before easing the pressure.

"Sweep the floor with _you_, maybe," Jason smirked, stepping back and letting Buzz Cut's body crumple to the ground.

"What a fucking pansy," Neck Tattoo laughed from across the store.

Buzz Cut started groaning at his feet, and Jason stepped on his chest, "I wouldn't get up if I were you."

"Maybe you should take your own advice," a deep voice sounded behind him. Jason reacted too slowly to avoid the fist against his jaw. He knew how to take a hit; he let his body move with the impact and managed to deflect a lot of the force. Even so, he found himself stumbling backwards, just barely managing to stay upright.

'These guys hit hard,' he thought, bracing himself for a fight.

Neck Tattoo's laughing neared hysterics. "Oh shit, that is some fucking action movie shit!" He swung his hammer around, giggling in delight as the pedestrians gasped and huddled closer together.

"Hey, watch it!" Jason yelled at the kid.

"I wouldn't worry about them, if I were you," The big guy said, sending another first flying towards Jason's head.

Jason lunged out of the way and the big guy sent an energy drink display crashing to the ground. "Stand still, you little punk." The man growled, his voice deep and gravely.

"I'm good," Jason replied, ducking down an aisle for cleaning supplies. These guys were too big for him to take down with force, but he felt confident that even with his scrambled brains, he had enough street smarts to outwit them.

He grabbed a bottle of bleach off the shelf and quickly unscrewed it, stuffing the cap in his pocket and putting the open bottle back in its place.

"No use running, punk," Big Guy #2 smiled, advancing towards Jason with his fists balled at his sides.

"Gee, thanks for the insight, Tweedledum," Jason said, pulling the cap out of his pocket and throwing it down the aisle past the hulking man's body. The guy glanced over his shoulder but turned back in time to catch Jason's approaching fist in his meaty palm.

"You didn't seriously think that would work?" he laughed.

"No, not really," Jason said, grabbing the bottle of bleach off the shelf and chucking the liquid into the guy's face. The man screamed in agony and released Jason's fist, too busy rubbing at his eyes to keep track of the smaller boy.

Jason took advantage of the distraction and kicked the guy's legs out from under him, wincing slightly at the loud crack that sounded from his head meeting linoleum. 'One down," he ticked off his mental tally, feeling pleased with himself.

"Fucking idiot," Big Guy #1 emerged in the aisle, kicking his partner's body out of the way.

"Oh, hey, Tweedledee. Don't think I forgot about you." Jason said, starting to pick up another bottle of bleach.

The big guy moved fast despite his size, he charged into Jason, slamming his body into a wall of first aid supplies and making him drop the bottle of cleaner. "Don't you even think about trying that trick on me, kid."

Jason coughed and struggled to get free. He couldn't move his arms, so he kicked his leg out as hard as he could, right into the big guy's crotch. The man immediately eased up his grip and crumpled into himself. Jason took his chance and scrambled away, cheeks burning. It wasn't a proud victory, but hell, it was better than death.

"You're fucking getting it now, kid!" The big guy yelled.

Jason bounded back towards the front of the store, grabbing a pack of pens off the wall and ripping it open. He pulled a few out and let the rest fall to the floor, ignoring the heavy footsteps behind him as he made his way towards Neck Tattoo.

"Hey, hurry up you idiot," Neck Tattoo's laugh died completely when Jason emerged from an aisle and grabbed him by the collar. He raised his hammer to retaliate, but Jason caught his wrist easily and twisted it behind his back. "Let go," The boy shrieked, panic permeating his tone.

"I wouldn't struggle if I were you," Jason warned, holding an uncapped pen against his throat. "Or else you're gonna get some more ink in that pretty neck of yours."

Seconds later, Big Guy #1 found his way to the front of the store. Jason smirked at his limping gait. "Hey ugly," he called, "I wouldn't move unless you want your buddy here to get an unscheduled tracheotomy."

The man just smirked and chuckled in that low, growling voice. "Like I give a shit about that brat." He crossed the room in three quick steps and ripped Neck Tattoo from Jason's grip, slinging the kid into an array of multi-colored slushie machines.

"Geez, way to be brutal," Jason grimaced as he watched the boy's body fall limp as a ragdoll into a puddle of frozen blue slush.

Big Guy #1 ignored him, aiming a fist for Jason's exposed stomach.

"What, no moment of silence for your fallen comrade?" Jason asked, dodging the blow but slipping in the sticky blueberry flavored mess. He made a show of getting back to his feet to distract from his foot kicking the hammer from Neck Tattoo's grip towards the other side of the store. "Let's move this away from our audience, huh, Tweedledee?" Jason taunted, starting to clamber towards the discarded tool.

"Whaddya think I'm an idiot, punk?" The big guy asked, reaching to grab his prey by the shirttail.

Jason sensed his approach and dove to the floor, sliding across the linoleum till the hammer's rubber handle rested firmly in his palm. He scrambled his body over and flung the weapon into the big guy's shin. The man roared in pain and kicked out blindly. His foot glanced across Jason's shoulder, but he ignored the pain, pulling himself to his feet and nailing the man across his head.

The big guy stumbled to the side, but Jason didn't relent. He reared back and struck him again, holding the hammer in both hands and panting as the giant of a man moaned and fell to the floor with a sickening thud.

Everything was still for a moment. Jason was almost in disbelief. After years of retirement, he had managed to take down all those guys on his own. Sure, it wasn't his most graceful work ever, but he had done it. He wanted to smile—he wanted to laugh. He hadn't felt like this since that rainy night three years ago when he had conquered lacquered wood and six feet of hard-packed soil with a belt buckle and determination. He felt like a survivor. For the first time since he had emerged from his grave, forcefully reborn into a life he hadn't asked to revisit: he felt like _himself_.

"Well, that was entertaining." The blonde woman said, folding her arms over her chest.

Jason started. He had forgotten she was there. The pedestrians stood hesitantly, hugging each other and crying tears of relief.

"Don't move!" The blonde said, pointing Buzz Cut's knife at the crowd. Jason had no idea when she'd gotten up to retrieve it, and he felt stupid for not noticing it was no longer on the ground.

"What the hell is your game?" Jason asked, attempting to take a step back but meeting resistance. He glanced up just soon enough to see the dark blur of a wine bottle colliding with the side of his head. The force sent him careening into the rack next to him, a display of snack cakes crumpling under his weight.

Blood and alcohol dribbled down the side of his head. His vision wavered dangerously as he righted himself. He tried to stand but his legs weren't cooperating. His limbs felt weak and sluggish and he found himself wishing he'd had something to eat today.

"Don't turn your back on an enemy. Isn't that like rule #1?" He heard Buzz Cut say before turning to Blonde. "And they said he'd be hard to take down!" His voice sounded distant and garbled, like the bad reception on his old TV set. Jason blinked over and over, trying to clear his vision as the boy picked up the bloody hammer from the floor and sauntered over to the group of pedestrians.

"Run!" Jason yelled, but his voice wouldn't project properly. He grabbed onto the rack behind him and pulled his body up, ignoring the way the floor tilted with his movement. He could hear screams and pleads as Buzz Cut dragged a young boy out of the herd of customers. "Get the fuck out of here!" Jason tried again, stumbling forward and grabbing onto the closest shelf for support.

No one heard him, or maybe they just didn't care. Buzz Cut raised the hammer over his head and Jason felt his world spinning wildly as he lowered it with force.

A gunshot broke out, the thunderous tone of it's blast shattering the fog in Jason's skull. His world flickered into darkness for a moment and then there was blood on the floor—a big puddle of it, dark and red.

The blonde woman shrieked.

"What?" Jason mouthed. His head throbbed in tune with the woman's wailing and his vision tunnel precariously. He couldn't keep up with the course of events.

The blonde woman's body slid limply off the counter. She clamped her hands hard against her face, digging little red crescents into her cheeks and forehead. "They fucking lied to us," she gasped. "They fucking lied, those pieces of shit!" Her voice rose in volume, making her sound increasingly unhinged. She rounded on Jason and pointed a finger at him, "You—you fucking psycho! You fucking killed him!"

Jason stared at her and tried to make sense of what she was saying. He blinked slowly, watching her mouth move and her neck veins bulge. She was talking to him, though he wasn't sure why. "Chill lady, I don't even have a gun—" he started to say, but before the words could fully leave his mouth, he felt it in his hand—the cold weighted metal. His heart wrenched in his chest. It wasn't possible.

Jason lifted the weapon to examine it, and the blonde woman—taking it as a threat—lunged for him, wrapping her hands around his neck. He didn't try to fight her. His mind was too far away, desperately trying to traverse the series of events that had composed his revival. He remembered the coffin, the darkness, the pain, the fear—he remembered a lot of things, things he wished he didn't. But he didn't remember taking the gun with him. He didn't remember drawing it, and he especially didn't remember shooting it.

"Hold it right there," an older man's voice said. Jason hardly registered the words, but he did notice when the pressure left his neck. He peeked up, wincing at the red and blue lights flashing against the melted snowflakes on the storefront windows: the police had arrived.

"What in god's name happened here," another voice sounded.

Jason scooted himself up and pulled his hood over his head. Even with the incessant drumming in his temples and the flurry of questions whirling through his mind, he was astute enough to realize he needed to get out of there, and fast. It was unlikely that the police would recognize him, despite his various run-ins with the Gotham PD in the time before his resurrection; but even so, he had a gun on him and there was a kid dead on the floor with a bullet in his head. It didn't look good for him, no matter the circumstances.

Jason glanced to all sides, assessing his situation. At the moment there were only 2 cops inside, and they were thoroughly preoccupied with the panicked pedestrians, the blonde, and the passed out goons. Jason stood slowly, his head careened, but adrenaline took over and steadied his shaking knees. He pulled his hood over his head and took a step backwards. No one acknowledged him, so he took another step and another, progressively crouching down until he had slipped through the back door.

Jason breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped out the door to find the alley deserted. The police inside must have been the first to respond, but judging by the cacophony of sirens piercing the quiet night, back up would be soon to arrive.

He took a few quick seconds to breathe and collect himself, before taking off at a sprint, mapping out the back streets in his head as he ran.

"Where do you think you're going?" A voice called. The familiarity of it stopped him in his tracks. The tone was hard with an underlying softness. Dick.

Jason's heart pounded against his chest. He wasn't sure how to play this off. Should he run? Should he just turn around, put on his old shit-eating grin, and act like rising from the dead was a totally commonplace thing to do? He didn't know, how the fuck _could_ he know?

Jason felt a hand on his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't heard Dick approach over his own racing pulse. "Everything alright there, kid?"

Jason pulled himself out of Nightwing's grip and turned around to face him. He backed into the shadows of the alley, hoping the darkened side street and his hood were enough to keep his face hidden.

"What, cat got your tongue?" Dick asked, placing a hand on his hip. He looked so different from Bruce like that. The Bat would never let his body language soften in front of a potential criminal.

Jason just stood there dumbly, his mind strayed to the gun, but he pushed the thought away, thoroughly disgusted with himself.

"Look, I'm not trying to lock you away or anything, but I can't just let a suspect run off." Dick said, voice hardening again as he crossed his arms over his chest. "You're coming with me whether you like it or not, but I'd rather not use force"

"Do you realize how dirty that sounds?" Jason remarked. He couldn't help himself, he sensed his old snark momentarily superseding his fear, and it felt good. It felt normal.

"So you do have a voice," Dick softened again. "What do you say we head back so you can give your testimony?"

"Like I'm going anywhere with a dude in a bodysuit."

"Resist me too much longer and you'll get a nice bright orange one of your own."

Jason took a half step back, "I didn't kill that guy." He said, even though he still wasn't sure.

"Then you don't have anything to worry about."

"Courts don't exactly favor teenage guys that look like me, I've heard about what happened to those dudes in Arkansas."

"That was years ago, things have changed." Dick said and uncrossed his arms. "Look, you're coming with me either way, but I can tell you things definitely aren't going to go in your favor if you don't return of your own volition. You already ran, but at least if you go back, you have a reasonable defense that your ditching a crime scene was just out of fear."

Jason shook his head imperceptibly and took another step backwards, bumping into a metal trashcan and sending it clattering to the floor. He winced at the sound. "Fine. I'll go."

"Good decision." Dick relaxed, nodding.

Jason huffed and bent over to pick up the trashcan. "Sure," he said, wrapping his hands around each handle. He went to lift the metal bin, but instead of putting it back, he flung it at Nightwing with all his strength, not waiting to see if it made contact before taking off at a full sprint down the alley. It was stupid to run, his chances of escaping were slim to none, but he had to try. He wasn't one to give up without a fight.

Jason whipped around a corner and spotted a fire escape. He didn't bother to check behind him before jumping and grabbing on to the bottom rung. He pulled his body up, thankful that his arms were still strong enough to support him, and rolled onto the bottom platform. His head spun with the exertion, but he ignored it, bounding up the steps two at a time.

When he made it to the top, Jason stepped back and examined the distance to the roof. He wished he had the grapple gun, it would make this so much easier, but he figured if he stood on the railing, he'd probably be able to make it. He leaned over the side to peer at the ground. There was no sign of Nightwing. It was odd, but he had no doubt that he was being pursued.

The snow was falling thickly now. He shivered and sucked in a breath, rolling his shoulders before grabbing the frigid railing with his bare hands. He lifted one foot onto the steel bar and then the other, slowly standing and moving his hands one at a time to the building's brick façade.

'This is stupid, this is so fucking stupid,' he thought as he bent his knees. He gritted his teeth anyway and jumped with all his strength, just barely managing to grab on to the building edge with the tips of his fingers. He kicked his legs and tried to push his body up, but he didn't have a good enough grip to leverage himself. This wasn't going to work, he realized. His heart started racing. He was going to die. He was going to die _again_.

He felt fire burning away his throat and his lungs. 'No no no,' his mind raced as the memory of a ticking clock echoed in his ears. He didn't even feel it when hands wrapped around his forearms and hoisted him onto the roof. He stared blindly at the sky, totally unaware of the snowflakes stinging his eyes. There was solid ground beneath his back, but his mind was hundreds of miles away in a warehouse in Ethiopia.

"Geez, kid, you trying to get yourself killed?" Dick asked. Jason didn't respond, he was still too numb and disoriented. He felt hands traveling up his body, checking for injuries. He tried to protest, but his body wouldn't obey. Dick moved his hood back and Jason wanted to scream at him to stop as fingers gently probed the nasty cuts in his hairline.

Dick drew his hands back and hissed. "I can't see anything in this dark, hold on a second."

"S'okay, I don' need—" Jason slurred, feebly trying to push himself up with his elbows.

Dick eased him back down effortlessly. "I think you have a concussion, just hold on a second." He said, right before shining a light in Jason's face.

Jason tried to shield his face with his hands but it was too late, Dick had already dropped the flashlight—had already yelled and grabbed the younger boy's face between his hands. "You—you can't." The older boy gasped. His voice sounded thick, like he was on the verge of tears. It made Jason uncomfortable.

"Sorry," Jason said. It felt so lame. He didn't know what to say, but Dick didn't seem to mind. He was running his fingers lightly over his face, relearning his features, or maybe trying to convince himself he was real.

"God, you're so thin." Dick fussed, brushing Jason's blood-matted hair from his face.

Jason swatted his hands away but didn't speak. His words were caught in his throat. He didn't know how to deal with any of this.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" He managed finally.

"I—I don't really care about _how_ you're back right now, Jay." Dick said, half laughing, "I just, I can't believe—you're alive."

"Not about that." Jason amended. He pushed himself up with a grunt and Dick immediately put an arm around his back to help him. "The convenience store."

"Oh," Dick sounded surprised, like he had already forgotten.

"I—that kid," Jason said, gesturing in the direction of the store. "I didn't mean—I don't know what—"

"It's okay," Dick reassured him, grabbing his forearm with one hand and his shoulder with the other. It'd been a while since Jason had been touched so affectionately, and it made him uncomfortable. "Anything you did…it was in self-defense."

"It was." Jason said, trying to convince himself.

"I know, Jay, of course." Dick said. He paused before adding, "you have to go back with me."

"To the store? But I—"

"No, not to the store. To the mansion."

"But what about giving my statement?"

"Things have changed, it's probably not a good idea to give out your identity, considering, well—"

"I'm dead."

Dick inhaled sharply. "Were," he corrected firmly. "Were dead."

Jason shook his head slowly, rolling his eyes, "Either way, I'm not going there."

"Why not?" Dick pressed.

"Because I don't fucking want to!"

"But Bruce—"

"Let me die and then replaced me."

"Jason, that's not fair."

"You're right, my life _hasn't_ been fair. I'm not gonna let him screw up my second shot at it." Jason said, standing, fists balled at his sides.

Dick was still, Jason couldn't see his eyes in the dark, but he knew if he could they'd be distant, his mind racing to come up with a new plan. "Okay." He said, absentmindedly standing to brace Jason when his knees tried to give out from under him.

Jason winced against the throbbing in his skull and looked up at Dick through squinted eyes, "okay?"

"I won't take you to the mansion, but I'm staying with you." Dick said, tightening his grip around the younger boy's elbow when he tried to move away. "At least for tonight."

"I don't need you babysitting me, I'm fine."

"You're clearly not!" Dick said, his voice firm and loud. Jason's stomach rolled from the volume.

"Ugh," Jason moaned and covered his eyes with his cold hands, trying to ease the whirling in his brain. Dick noticed his discomfort and eased him back to a seated position, rubbing circles on his back for comfort. "Fine," he managed desperately through clenched teeth, trying desperately not to vomit. "Fine."

"Where do you live?" Dick asked immediately, not giving the younger boy the opportunity to change his mind.

"Just a few blocks east from here on Romero."

Dick nodded. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Jason said, even though he wasn't totally sure. Dick wrapped an arm around him anyway, pulling him close. "Don't get too comfortable, princess." Jason elbowed the older man weakly but didn't try to pull away. He'd never admit it, but it felt good to be cared for. Even when Talia had wiped his brow to ease him through a nightmare or stitched up his hands after numerous incidents with the mirror, it always felt distant. She was doing it because she had to, because he was her responsibility—her catalyst to get to Bruce. It was never because she actually cared.

The pair traveled in silence for a while, just the distant sound of sirens and the crunching of their feet in the fresh snow disturbing the still air.

"What are you going to tell the cops?"

"I'll take care of it," Dick said simply, and Jason believed him.

"God, you're alive," Dick whispered after a while, a shiver running up his spine. "You're really alive."

Jason thought of the monster movie from earlier. Frankenstein: he had read it for a book report once. "Yeah," he said, unsure if the emotion behind the sentiment was one of fear, acceptance, or both. "I guess I am."


	2. Chapter 2

Jason remembered the events of the night in episodes. He had started to fade in a serious way about halfway through the walk home. He'd refused to be held, but Dick was carrying the majority of his weight as they trudged towards his apartment. He didn't remember actually getting there, but he did have a vague memory of Dick's face when he saw his home. It was a look disgust, or maybe of pity or sadness. He was too sick to distinguish, but he knew it wasn't good.

"Where's your bed?" Dick asked, settling Jason on the couch.

Jason stared at him blankly for a few long seconds, he knew he should respond, but he struggled to drudge up the meaning of the words from the recesses of his battered brain. When comprehension finally registered, he spread out his hands and gestured at the couch. "You're looking at it."

"Jay," Dick sighed. He looked concerned, but he didn't continue the thought. "Where do you keep the painkillers?"

Jason's eyelids fluttered open and he pulled his body back into a seated position. He didn't even remember lying down. "Cabinet over the sink."

"Hey, don't go to sleep in there," Dick said, rattling around in the cabinet. He walked back into the room and handed Jason two Tylenol and a glass of water. "I'd prefer you have juice but you don't have any."

Jason gulped down the pills dry. "Yeah, well, that's why I was at the store." He placed the full glass on his coffee table. Dick picked it back up and put it in his hand.

"Drink that."

Jason grimaced and took a small sip. The water was acrid and sharp and made Jason's stomach cramp in protest. He felt like he was going to vomit.

"Sure have a lot of prescription bottles in there." Dick said.

"Hmm?" Jason asked and closed his eyes, concentrating on not gagging. The light was piercing through his eyelids and making his head spin. He felt Dick push a cold cloth against his neck and shivered.

"I'm not judging, just…observing."

"Yeah, well, it's been a rough couple of years." Jason mumbled through dry lips. "But I never take them."

"How—how long have you—"

"Can we not talk about this right now?" Jason interrupted. His head was spinning worse than after a night of destructive drinking and all he wanted to do was sleep, not exhume painful memories for his so-called brother.

"Sure, yeah," Dick agreed. He seemed overly afraid of offending. Like if he said the wrong thing, the younger boy in front of him would suddenly disappear. Jason understood the fear; he'd felt the same way for a long time. Hell, he still did on the bad days.

"I think you should get checked out." Dick said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

"It's just a concussion." Jason mumbled, his words slurring together.

"You need stitches."

"You can do them."

Dick sighed and grabbed the cup from Jason when it started to slip from his slackened grip. "I have to go back to the store and you can't be alone."

"I've been alone for a year, one more hour isn't going to kill me." Both men cringed at the poor choice of words.

"Look, I know you don't want to hear this, but I really think Alfred—"

"No." Jason said with as much strength as he could muster. He really liked Alfred, out of all the people that called Wayne Manor "home," Alfred was the only one Jason ever imagined visiting. Still, he'd already had his cover blown by Dick. Even though his estrangement from the Bat family was now basically doomed, his stubbornness was one small piece of his former self that he'd managed to retain, and he wasn't ready to give it up.

"So you'd rather go to the hospital, then?"

"No," Jason said too quickly. He had bad memories of that place, his heart raced at the thought.

"Then I'm not really seeing any other options."

"You already called him, didn't you?" Jason asked. Dick didn't answer, which meant he was right. He knew his former brother too well. "What did you tell him?"

"What does it matter?"

"It matters," Jason insisted. "Tell me."

"I told him there was an urgent situation and I'll explain when he gets here."

"What about Bruce?" Jason pressed.

"What about him? He's on patrol."

"I don't want him to know."

Dick didn't reply, he just pushed Jason's hair off of his forehead, gently cupping the uninjured side of his face, presumably to check for a fever.

"Promise me!" Jason said as forcefully as he could. The throbbing in his head was immense, it ticked away the seconds like a timer counting down to an unknowable future.

Dick knelt down in front of Jason and put a hand on his shoulder. "If you don't want to be dragged into—all of this. I get it, okay. We all get it. It's fine."

Jason pushed his knuckles into his eyes. His head was pounding way too hard for this shit. He didn't know how to explain himself. He wasn't even sure if he knew what he wanted. For so long his sole purpose had been to heal—to forget. Now he realized it had never really been possible.

"You don't get it." Jason said weakly. He was silent for a while. Dick thought he might have dozed off, but then he said, "How long?"

"What do you—"

"How long has he known I'm alive?"

Dick wasn't fazed, "close to a year now."

"So nice of him to stay away," Jason said with as sardonic a voice as he could muster.

"He figured if you weren't coming to him, there was a reason."

Jason wanted to laugh, but he was too weak and too nauseous to manage it. "So I guess he just didn't care what that reason was?"

"You were being taken care of."

Jason tried to hold back a grimace when a wave of dizziness passed over him. "I'll bet he was thrilled to be relieved of the responsibility."

Dick sighed and tried to get Jason to lie down, only to have his hands slapped away. "He forced this life on you once and look how it turned out. Do you think he was just going to turn around and do it again?"

"Got it." Jason said, rubbing at his eyes. He wished he could drill a hole in the back of his head and release the immense pressure building in his temples. "I failed so I'm kicked out for life."

Dick pulled Jason's hands from his face. He tried to hold them, to rub the back of his hand with his thumbs, but the comforting gesture made Jason's skin crawl, so he pulled back until he was released. "That's not what I mean." Dick said.

Jason sniffed and scratched at the dried blood on his cheek. "It's just that you're a real fucking idiot if you believe that bullshit. Batman didn't stay away because he was worried about me."

"Jay—" Dick started, but Jason ignored him.

"I've had a long time to think about things. I mean, y'know, at first I wanted to see him. I could hardly string two thoughts together, but that was something I knew." Jason blinked and blinked, trying to clear the fog from his vision. "And he never came for me and I couldn't figure out why. Then I started hearing about the new Robin on TV and it finally clicked."

Dick squeezed his shoulder and waited for him to continue. Jason tried to ignore his eyes, so guileless and full of empathy that it made his stomach turn. "He didn't give a shit. He found someone better at the role so it didn't matter that I was back. He didn't care about my feelings or how I was. He just—didn't care."

"No." Dick said softly. "No, you're wrong."

"Like you'd know." Jason spat. "It's not like you were ever around when I was filling in as the Boy Wonder. He was always waiting for me to slip up and go down the wrong path. Hell, I was, too, by the end. I just hope the shiny, new model is better at following orders."

"Look," Dick said, combing his hair back in resignation. "I'm not going to tell you're totally wrong, but it wasn't that cut and dry."

"That fucking clown's still alive, isn't he? How much more fucking 'cut and dry' could it possibly get?" Jason asked, pressing his knuckles into his temples to try and suppress the shrill siren echoing through his thoughts. "I didn't stay away because I was scared of the life—I stayed away because I knew I wasn't wanted. It's pretty easy to recognize, I'm not exactly unfamiliar with the feeling."

"Jason," Dick said sharply. Jason jumped and opened his eyes—he hadn't even realized he'd closed them. "Finding out you were alive—" Dick continued when he had the younger boy's attention. "There aren't words. Of course the first thing any of us wanted to do was to bring you home, but we had to be sure—"

"Sure?" Jason prompted.

"Well, it's not every day people come back from the dead. We just—we didn't know if there was something fishy going on, and Talia being involved didn't exactly help."

Jason dug his nails into his eyebrows without realizing it. "I didn't ask for any of this, you know? I couldn't control who helped me. Don't you think I would've preferred if—"

Dick didn't answer, but Jason understood the subtext of his silence. It was unwise to expect Bruce to prioritize being a father. It was unwise to expect him to consider Jason's feelings at all.

"I can't deal with this shit right now." Jason said, covering his ears with his hands. He wished he had never opened his mouth. He didn't want to have a heart to heart with Dick. He didn't want to mend things or hear the other side of the story. He just wanted to sleep and pretend things like waking up in a coffin and digging out of his own grave were things of fiction and not his actual life.

"We can continue this conversation after you've slept." Dick said, gently pulling Jason's hands from his head.

Jason didn't argue, he didn't have the energy. "Can you turn on the TV?" He asked weakly. His vision was tunneling and he knew he wouldn't be able to locate the remote, but the wailing in his head was reaching an intolerable pitch and he was desperate to drown it out.

Dick didn't respond, but moments later the slightly static noise of a Thanksgiving movie Jason didn't know sounded in the room. He turned his head into the couch cushion as a male's voice said, "let's eat dead bird!" He closed his eyes and imagined his bludgeoned body tied and dressed on the long dining table, Batman on one end and the Joker on the other.

Jason fell asleep almost instantly. He dreamed about fog and the sounds of someone crying. When he roused, the fog remained in the periphery of his vision, making the space unfamiliar and disorienting. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He swallowed thickly and his stomach flopped. His mouth filled with saliva as he pulled himself into a seated position. Jason gagged and threw a hand over his mouth. He jumped up and clambered to the bathroom, making it just in time to lean over the toilet and vomit.

He was reminded that he hadn't had anything to eat that day when the glass of orange juice from earlier forced it's way into the toilet. The acid burned his throat and nose and he mentally cursed Talia for having him drink it. Soon he started dry heaving, his abs ached from the effort and his head throbbed with every painful contraction. A hand was placed softly on his back, not rubbing or offering words of comfort like Dick would, just resting there in silent reassurance. Alfred knew what Jason needed better than anyone else ever had.

Jason shivered and spit into the toilet as he reached for the handle to flush it. His stomach felt marginally settled, though his head still ached. He pushed his sweat-matted hair out of his face and realized his head had been bandaged.

"When did this happen?" He asked, lifting his hazy gaze to study Alfred's stoic face.

"From what Master Dick described, it seems as though you had a skirmish in a convenience store."

"No, not that." Jason said, pausing under the monumental effort of regathering his thoughts. "Who patched me up?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, an almost imperceptible flash of worry passing through his eyes. "You don't remember?"

Jason stared at him blankly, his gaze cloudy and distant.

"Could you do me the pleasure of stating the date, Master Jason?"

"November," Jason said, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. "The—24th?"

"Your certainty is inspiring."

"To be fair, I didn't know the date before I got my head bashed in, either."

Alfred wasn't fazed. "How are you feeling?"

Jason swallowed thickly and sniffed. "Like I need a cigarette."

"I believe that sleep would be better for healing."

Jason scrunched his eyes closed and leaned his back on the wall. "Sounds like a plan, Al, and I'll get right on that as soon as the room stops spinning."

"If your head is still bothering you, perhaps a visit to the hospital would be prudent."

Jason gritted his teeth and braced his hand on the wall. "I'm fine," He said, grunting and clutching his side as he pulled himself to his feet.

Alfred stepped in to help the younger boy, offering him a shoulder for support. "The Manor then, it's better equipped for me to treat you."

"I don't need to be treated, I'm not made of fucking glass. I've had way worse than this." Jason cringed at his own petulant tone. He didn't like to be reminded of his mortality and he didn't like to feel weak. Still, talking that way to one of the few people that had ever treated him with unprejudiced kindness was inexcusable. "Sorry." He said, thinking about how that one word could sum up his entire existence.

"This time, we can blame it on the concussion, young sir."

Jason gave a small smile of appreciation but hissed when he stumbled slightly and it jarred his side. "H-hold on a second." He said, leaning against the door frame to take deep, steadying breaths.

Alfred moved Jason's arm away and lifted his shirt. His eyes hardened when he saw the mottled purple skin. "You've acquired a rather nasty bruise."

"Yeah," Jason grimaced, yanking his shirt from Alfred's grip and pulling it back down. "Nothing's broken, though."

"I'd like to make certain."

"I'm fine."

"Master Jason," Alfred said, voice firm. "I won't let your stubbornness be the cause of your demise. Not when I'm here to prevent it." Jason understood the subtext: 'I've lived through your death once, I won't do it again.'

"Okay," Jason said, allowing Alfred to take his weight again as they continued the journey to the couch. "I'm sorry."

Alfred sighed, barely masking his exhaustion. "Apology accepted, young sir."

The two moved slowly through the living room. Jason noticed that the disarray he had caused earlier had been straightened. "You didn't have to clean," he said as he was lowered onto the couch.

"I did hope that in doing so I might find a bed." Alfred said, helping Jason lean back before pulling up his shirt to prod at his chest.

"Yeah, well," Jason winced when Alfred brushed a particularly tender spot, "I'm not a big fan of beds. They remind me too much of—well—" The unfinished thought hung in the air, but they both knew the implication. It reminded him too much of his coffin.

Alfred pulled his shirt back down and patted his shoulder before pulling him into a quick embrace. Jason was startled but he didn't move. It had been so long since he had been held in such a way. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. "It's good to have you back, Master Jason." He said, before straightening up and pulling down his suit jacket as though nothing had happened. "Your ribs are heavily bruised, but nothing appears to be broken."

"Told ya ," Jason said, trying to hide his reeling thoughts behind nonchalance. "You're just a big worrywart."

"Yes, you have a serious concussion and a battered ribcage, but you're correct, I am clearly prone to over worrying."

Jason smirked. "Really gotta work on that."

"I will get right on it, Master Jason. Can I get you anything? Some tea, perhaps?"

Jason's stomach flipped uneasily. "No thanks. Think I'll just get some sleep."

"When you wake, then." Alfred said.

Jason just nodded and lowered his uninjured side to the couch. Sleep came quickly. He hardly even noticed when a blanket was pulled around his shoulders. He didn't dream this time, and when he woke it was to a hand on his forehead and the salty smell of bacon.

"Morning Starshine," Dick said from his seat on the couch armrest. "How're you feeling?"

Jason groaned and covered his face with his hands. The room was too bright and the greasy smell of breakfast was overwhelming.

"That good, huh?"

"Peachy," Jason replied.

"How's your head?"

Jason swallowed again and again, desperately quelling the caustic bile in his throat. "No more scrambled than usual."

"That bad?" Dick teased, leaving his brother's side to turn off the overhead light.

Jason's body relaxed at the sudden darkness. He cautiously opened his eyes, happy to find that his headache had moved from intense pain to no more than a dull throbbing.

Without warning, Dick touched Jason's cheek. The younger boy flinched under the contact and Dick pulled his hand away. "Sorry," he said, hiding any concern beneath a mask of stoicism. "Just hold your head still, okay?"

Jason nodded but jerked back when a flashlight was shone in his face. "Fuck! You could've warned me!" He said through clenched teeth, squinting against the thrumming in his temples.

"Sorry," Dick said again, though his tone was unapologetic. He took Jason by the chin and pulled his eyelid open, flashing the light in his eyes and watching his pupils dilate. Seeming satisfied with what he saw, he put the flashlight down and brushed back Jason's hair, checking the bandages for fresh blood.

"I think you're going to be fine, but you should still probably take it easy for a few days." Dick said finally, ruffling Jason's hair slightly before getting up to turn back on the overhead.

Jason moaned when the room was newly illuminated. "What time is it?"

"A quarter past six."

"That late?

"You can sleep more if you need to."

"No, it's fine." Jason said, rubbing at his eyes with his wrist. "So are you going to fill me in, or what?"

Dick frowned. "We can talk after you eat something."

"I'm not hungry," Jason said, trying to keep his face impassive as he pulled himself into a seated position. His torso was stiff and sore and it surged with a renewed pain when he moved.

"You need to eat." Dick reiterated, folding his arms across his chest. Jason realized he was wearing his civilian clothes again. He wondered if that was wise, considering he'd navigated the same halls earlier as Nightwing. Maybe Dick Grayson was less conspicuous an identity, but just barely. Surely, a ward of Bruce Wayne would stick out like a sore thumb in this part of town. It was possible he just changed when he got into the apartment, but what was the point if he was just going to have to change back again before leaving?

"Jay?" Dick unfolded his arms. He looked concerned, and Jason suddenly felt embarrassed. He'd improved a lot in the past few years, but his memory had taken a serious hit and he still had a habit of spacing out while he processed things. His doctors told him it was a good sign—an indication of healing, but oftentimes, he wasn't so sure.

"I'll eat, I'll eat. Don't get your panties in a wad." Jason said, bracing his hand on the armrest and pulling himself to his feet. He wobbled slightly and Dick moved in to steady him.

"Just stay here, I'll bring it to you."

Jason shrugged Dick off and walked towards the kitchen with dragging feet. "Like hell," he scowled, annoyed at his own weakness. He wasn't yet willing to sacrifice his last scrap of dignity by allowing Dick to nurse him back to health like some helpless child.

Dick sighed and watched the boy hobble to the kitchen. "I see you're stubborn as ever."

"And you're annoying as ever, glad we're all caught up." Jason said, slumping into a chair at the small kitchen table and resting his head in his hands. He jumped when a plate was plunked between his elbows. There was no way Dick had moved that fast. He was losing time, and it unnerved him.

"Everything alright, Little Wing?" Dick asked, lowering himself into the chair across from him.

"It was until you used that godforsaken nickname." Jason said, pushing around his food with his fork. It was a simple meal: just bacon, eggs, and toast, but the fact that it wasn't burned indicated that it was Alfred's doing. Jason speared a piece of egg and slipped it on his tongue. He fought back a gag at the spongy texture, but he swallowed it down anyway, determined to get his answers.

"Okay." He said, nibbling the corner of a buttery piece of toast.

"Okay?" Dick asked, in the middle of stuffing a piece of bacon in his mouth.

"I'm eating, so fill me in. What's going on with the Three Musketeers and their roided out bodyguards?"

Dick watched as Jason shredded his toast into tiny pieces, pressing the fragments between his fingers until the butter dripped onto his plate and his fingertips were coated with grease. "Tearing up your food doesn't exactly count as eating."

Jason sighed and pushed his plate away. "What the fuck is your deal?" He asked. His stomach already felt stretched and full, it bubbled and cramped in protest of the meal. "Chill with the power play already, and stop avoiding the subject."

"C'mon, this isn't about control." Dick said, putting his fork down. "You look half starved, Jay, it isn't healthy."

"Yeah, well, do you think I would've become Robin if I was worried about my health?"

"You were a kid, you didn't fully understand the consequences."

"And now I've experienced them first hand and I'm still asking you to tell me what you know."

"Fine," Dick relented, "but could you try to eat more, just for my peace of mind?" Jason rolled his eyes but picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite. Dick gave a shadow of a smile and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "The three kids—"

"They were hopped up on something." Jason interrupted, chewing mechanically, not daring to let the salt or oil touch his tongue.

"How do you know?"

"I spent half my life around people coked out of their minds, it's not that hard to tell." Jason shrugged, wiping his oil-slicked fingers on his jeans. "And anyway, no normal teenager can pack a blow like that."

"Well, if they were on something, we'll know soon enough. I'm having Tim run a toxicology screen as we speak."

"Tim?" Jason asked, smashing a piece of egg with his fork.

"Robin." Dick corrected. He sounded unapologetic and it pissed Jason off.

"So what else do we know," Jason pressed, eager to change the subject.

"Their names, for one: Antoine Wilson, Jeremy Hutton, and Mason Pollard."

"So let me guess, part of some gang initiation: kill off a random pedestrian to gain membership?"

"That's the thing, no neighborhood gang fits the bill. Not to mention the lack of a criminal record on any of them. Decent grades, involved in after school activities, set to graduate in a year: from all accounts, they seem like pretty normal teenagers."

"So you think they're pawns?"

"Most likely, but it's still too early to say for sure."

Jason nodded and chewed the inside of his cheek, trying not to think about how one of those 'pretty normal teenagers' was being cut open on an autopsy table somewhere. "What's the story on Dumb and Dumber?"

"Ivan and Christopher Kohl: they're brothers. Record's not so squeaky clean for those two. Both charged with dealing anabolic steroids."

"No surprise there." Jason sneered, "but doesn't really offer any clue as to their MO for playing human shields for a bunch of high schoolers."

"That's not all. The trafficking charges were filed almost 15 years ago. The police have been keeping tabs with regular drug tests since their parole—according to records, they're totally clean."

"Yeah, and that _might_ be important information if Gotham's finest were even remotely competent."

Dick smirked and folded his arms over his chest. "Yet, they sure saved your ass last night."

"I had it under control," Jason argued, digging little crescents into his knees.

"I can see that," Dick replied, gesturing at Jason's bandaged head.

Jason felt irritation swell in his chest. "Oh, right, because you've never been injured on the field."

Dick tilted his head and gave a half smile. "I'm just yanking your chain, Jay. You—you did good."

Jason just hummed in acknowledgment and stared at the dizzying grain of the kitchen table. He wondered how hard it was for Dick not to bring up the dead kid. He could tell he wanted to reprimand him and remind him that—no, being injured wasn't a failure, but killing someone was. Jason almost wished he _would_ say it, at least then they could stop with the pretense that their relationship was anything but strained at the best and non-existent at the worst.

Jason shifted in his seat and tapped his finger against the plate, pushing it away millimeter by millimeter. He imagined himself telling off Dick—questioning how many people had died by the Joker's hand since his own death. Asking if their lives were somehow less important than that of a person that was going to kill an innocent child.

The air felt hot and stale around him and he found it difficult to inhale properly. His vision darkened at the edges and suddenly he was in his coffin, digging his nails into the wood—mahogany, the finest money could buy.

"Jason?" Dick leaned forward, ready to rush to the younger boy's side if he was needed.

Jason snapped his head up and willed his breathing to slow. He wasn't going to have an anxiety attack—not in front of Dick. "S-so what about the blonde?" He asked, wrenching his fingernails from where they were sunk into the table surface.

"Blonde?" Dick asked, sitting back in his chair again.

"Yeah, the blonde, you know: middle aged lady, yoga pants, hot ass?"

"I'm sorry, did you want her number, or…"

"No, Bird Brain, she was in with the kids. Was getting all close and personal with one of them." Jason said, grimacing at the memory.

Dick knitted his eyebrows and looked at the ceiling. "Don't know, police didn't mention her. I'll have Tim check the tapes."

Jason stiffened at the new Robin's mention. "What is he, your personal errand boy?" He asked, words dripping with resentment, "Bat clan says jump and he asks how high?" Jason wished he felt angrier, rather than just resigned. "Bet Bruce is thrilled."

"Hey, I understand how you feel, but you don't know what you're talking about." Dick argued. He sounded so defensive, so brotherly—Jason wondered if he would've ever been that way towards him, if he had ever actually tried to get to know him. "Tim—he's a good kid," Dick continued. "Smart, hard-working—it's thanks to him that Batman didn't completely go off the handle after—"

Jason sat there, eyes darkened with anger, daring him to continue the thought. "Yeah, well, enjoy your upgrade," He said when Dick remained silent, grabbing his still full plate and pushing himself up from the table. His knees wobbled but he ignored it, slamming his plate it into the sink and making his way to the bedroom. For the first time, he found himself wishing his apartment were bigger. Storming off didn't really have the same affect when the guilty party was only a few feet away.

"Jason," Dick sounded from the doorway, but Jason ignored it, tossing his jacket on the floor and wrenching his shirt over his head. Dick made a noise of shock behind him and he wasn't sure if it was from the nasty bruise or his too visible ribs. "Little Wing," the older boy tried again, his voice sounded soft, weary, but he still didn't dare to approach.

"Call me that again and lose your tongue," Jason seethed through clenched teeth. He leaned to grab a clean shirt from the hamper and bit back a whimper at the surge of pain that shot up his side.

"What are you doing?" Dick asked, fighting the urge to go help his brother when he saw him struggle to bend down.

Jason pulled on the fresh shirt and yanked down his sweatpants. He didn't even remember putting them on to begin with, and he found himself wondering what else he had forgotten of the previous night. "Believe it or not, I wasn't at the store for shits and giggles," Jason said, doing a quick scan around his room for his jeans. He found them folded neatly on top of the radiator. "In case you didn't notice, I'm kinda short on food at the moment."

"Let me go for you," Dick offered.

"I actually want more than just cereal, but thanks,"

"Jay—"

"I'm not a fucking baby." Jason snapped. "I got in a fight, so fucking what, since when do we take a day off just because of a bump on the head."

"That's more than just a bump." Dick argued. He didn't comment further on Jason's physical state, but his scanning eyes divulged his thoughts.

"I don't want to hear it." Jason said, indignant at the attempted guilt trip. He saw through the bullshit, the misplaced blame that colored their every interaction. In Dick's eyes, Jason was still that 15 year old kid that was naïve and reckless and possessing an unceasing faith in Batman and everything he stood for. He had no way of knowing what rebuilding a life after death looked like: the countless hours of therapy, both mental and physical, the pain of resurfacing memories, the loneliness.

For a while, Jason doubted if he had returned at all—he thought maybe he was someone else entirely: a new identity blooming in this broken husk of a child. It wasn't until he rediscovered his anger that he knew with certainty who he was. That needling pressure first settled in his chest when—one afternoon after a particularly brutal PT session—he turned on the news to see a scrolling headline reporting 14 killed in a scheme perpetrated by the Joker.

The feeling was indescribable. The intensity of the emotion scared him, but it warmed him, too. After months of living devoid of any real feelings, or of any real way to connect to the person he was before, the anger gave him meaning. At the time, he wasn't yet aware of the significance—the details of the last few months before his death escaped him. Even so, his therapy took on a new purpose. He knew with certainty that there was something important he was missing—something still to be unearthed, and he wanted to be prepared when it came time to meet it.

That goal had spurred him through the worst days, because his body might not be at peak condition, but that didn't mean he wasn't strong. He was Jason Peter Todd, the kid that stared down death and came out the other side. A knock to the head wasn't going to change that, and to harp on it just demeaned the very essence of his being.

"Okay, why don't we go together?"

Jason scoffed and zipped up his jacket. "You think I want to be associated with a ward of Bruce Wayne? There aren't enough locks in the world to keep the punks around here out of my apartment."

"So we can go uptown."

"For groceries?" Jason asked incredulously. "That's stupid."

Dick sighed and put a hand on his hip. Jason recognized the move from the night before: he would level with his perp, act equally as annoyed to be undergoing the interrogation processes, and use that rapport to get what he wanted. A technique like that would never work for Jason, but he guessed Dick was just friendly looking enough to pull it off. Either way, he wasn't going to let it work on him.

"What's the real issue here, Jason?"

"I could ask you the same. What's with the protective act, you hardly even know me."

"You're family." Dick said, as if that was explanation enough. Jason just rolled his eyes and shoved his way past Dick into the hallway.

Dick whirled around and caught him by the arm. The movement jarred Jason's side and the older boy's eyes softened when his brother hissed and clenched his fists. "Sorry," Dick mumbled, releasing his hold.

Jason just nodded and took a shaky breath, walking to where his shoes lay forgotten in the hall and leaning against the wall behind them.

"It's just—about last night."

'Here we go,' Jason thought. He'd wondered when the gun would enter the conversation. He almost didn't want to mention Talia's involvement, just to deny Dick and the rest of the Bat family the satisfaction of being right about her. She was an international terrorist and certainly no angel, but she had been there for him when no one else had—ulterior motive or not. That kind of ambiguity had no place in their black and white moral system, though. In the most hidden regions of Jason's heart, that's why he knew his existence with them was doomed from the onset.

"I don't want to count out the possibility that what happened last night—you being there—that it wasn't a coincidence."

Jason stopped in his work of tying his laces and looked up at Dick. "You can't be serious."

"It's suspicious don't you think? Why that store, why at that time?"

Jason raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You think I planned it?"

Dick widened his eyes in shock. "No."

"So you think someone is trying to get to me?"

"I don't know, Jay, but I don't think it's unreasonable to consider the possibility."

"I'd say there are a lot of reasons not to consider it. The most obvious being, for all intents and purposes, I'm dead."

"If we knew you were back, what makes you think the bad guys wouldn't?"

"It doesn't really matter, since they don't know I'm—well, _was—_ Robin."

"You know as well as I do that that secret isn't as well-hidden as we'd like to believe. The Joker knows, for one. Even Tim was able to figure out, who knows who else might've—"

Jason bristled at the mention of his replacement. "Can't you shut up about that kid for two goddamn seconds?"

"Be angry all you want, but is your pride worth dying a second time over?"

"Don't you fucking dare." Jason warned. He didn't like hearing any implication that his death was his fault. It was an internal monologue he debated daily, but it was his personal cross to bear. No one else had the right to consider him anything but a victim of shitty circumstances, especially not without knowing the full story.

Dick looked to the water-stained ceiling and shook his head. "That's not what I meant." He said. The remorse in his voice made Jason cringe. Dick could be so sincere, it made him hard to hate, and that irritated him.

"Okay," Jason relented finally, resting his head on the wall behind him and pinching the bridge of his nose. "What do you propose I do?"

"Well, first of all, you're not safe here." Dick replied immediately.

"Surprise, surprise," Jason sighed, bracing his hand on the wall and pulling himself to his feet. "Then where do you recommend I go?"

"You already know my answer."

"And that's not fucking happening, so what's the next option."

"Thought you might feel that way." Dick said, smiling slightly. "Next best plan is that you let us keep you under surveillance."

Jason snorted. "There are enough annoying pests around here already. No need to add bats to the mix."

"What are you thinking, then?"

Jason shrugged and checked his jacket pocket for a carton of cigarettes. Unsurprisingly, they were gone. Probably Alfred's doing. "I'm not letting you upturn my life based on a hunch. If something happens again, I'll—consider contacting you. That's the best I can do."

Dick shook his head, "that's not good enough."

"I didn't ask for this, you know!" Jason snapped, chest heaving.

"I-I know—"

"No. You don't. No one does." Jason argued. Dick's face was lined with shock and grief—he looked older than Jason remembered and his culpability made him want to claw out his eyes. "I don't—I don't want—" He shook his head, trying to clear away the memories, to dislodge the yawning empty spaces. "Just go." He said weakly.

"You're upset." Dick said, reaching to grasp his arm. "I get that, okay? But—"

"Go!" Jason reiterated. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it together. He was already doing a shitty job of it.

Dick stood there in silence for a while. The minutes stretched between them, pulling them further and further apart with every soundless second. "Okay," Dick said finally. "Okay."

He turned to leave, and his sudden absence made Jason feel unbalanced and alone. "Hey," He called after him, suddenly desperate for his company. "There's one thing I want to know."

Dick turned back, waiting for him to continue.

"Was—" Jason continued, gulping against his hesitancy to know the truth. "Was it before or after?"

Dick knitted his eyebrows in confusion. "What?"

Jason inhaled and dug his nails into his palm. He shouldn't be asking this, but he couldn't help it—his curiosity overwhelmed him. "The new Robin: was he taken on before or after Batman knew I was alive?"

Dick's face fell and his eyes clouded. He looked older like that—like a man that had fought too many battles and endured too many arguments. "What does it matter, Jason? It won't change anything."

"Just tell me." Jason said, voice low and tired. He could tell by Dick's reaction to the question that the answer wouldn't be one he wanted to hear. He had just needed to know how replaceable he was—whether he was nothing more than a not-so-stellar sidekick or if had actually meant something to the man he'd thought of as a father. Now he knew for certain that his feelings hadn't been reciprocated.

"It was around the same time."

"But before or after?" Jason pressed.

Dick was having trouble making eye contact with Jason. He rubbed at his jaw for a while before finally answering. "After."

"Figures." Jason said simply. He wasn't even mad, just resigned. "Where's my house key?"

"I know how you feel, Jay—"

"No one knows how I feel." Jason bit back, the throbbing in his head intensified and he fought the urge to curl up on the ground.

Dick walked towards him and braced his shoulder. "You should sit down."

Jason squinted his eyes shut and shook his head at the floor. "Where's my fucking key?"

"I know it seems heartless. I get that. I had my hang-ups, too, but—"

"No." Jason said, grabbing Dick's arm and digging his nails into his flesh. "Don't defend him." The smell of soil filled Jason's nostrils and his fingers started to tremble. He felt his body being pushed down and he didn't fight it. His mind was far away, wishing he had been resurrected in a new world—one where all the so-called guardians in his life weren't completely shitty at the job.

"Jay—" Dick reached for Jason's shoulder but had his hand slapped away.

"Haven't you overstayed your welcome?" Jason asked. His voice sounded softer, drained.

Dick sat there for a while, crouched on his heels and staring at the younger boy's down-turned face. Finally he sighed and straightened, fighting the urge to ruffle Jason's unruly hair or give him one last reassuring pat on the shoulder. Instead, he headed toward the doorway and paused in the threshold. "You're invited to Thanksgiving." He said, turning back.

"What?" Jason asked, his eyes still glued to the floor.

"Thanksgiving. Alfred asked me to tell you."

"Does Bruce know?"

Dick didn't respond. He wasn't sure of the answer, though he could surmise a guess.

"Like hell." Jason replied, reading the silence.

"Just think about it" Dick said, reaching for the doorknob. "The key's on the kitchen counter, next to your phone."

"Thanks," Jason mumbled.

Dick smiled slightly. "Yeah. Be safe, Little Wing."

Jason raised his middle finger and held it there till the sound of Dick's laughing was muffled behind the closed door. It was strange to be alone again. He found himself immediately missing the presence of his old family and that made him feel weak and disgusted.

He pulled off one of his shoes and threw it against the front door where it hit with a resounding bang. The sound made him think of the gunshot from the night before and his stomach flipped at the memory. He scrambled to the bathroom on hands and knees and gagged painfully over the toilet. He rubbed the heels of his palms into his thighs over and over, swallowing down bile, trying his best to not vomit. When the nausea had settled, he toed off his other shoe and unzipped his jacket.

Jason leaned his bony spine into the wall and pressed his hands over his forehead. He felt sick and weak—sweat rolled down his back and his skin felt hot and itchy. He wasn't going out today, there was no way. He couldn't return to that store any time soon—not that he even wanted to—and the next closest one was a few blocks further down. That distance would normally mean nothing, but with the state he was in now, it felt like a momentous effort. Part of him wished he had just taken Dick up on his offer for help, but he quickly rejected the thought. It was obvious that the Bat clan didn't need him; he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that the feeling wasn't mutual.

He sniffed and spat into the toilet before closing the lid. Jason sat there for a while, leaned against the wall, waiting for his trembling to die down. He wished he could just crawl to the couch, turn the TV to top volume, and stay there until the thought of Dick, and Bruce, and everyone that called the Wayne Manor home subsided from his memory. But something was weighing on his mind and he knew he wouldn't be able to rest until he checked it out.

Jason inhaled deeply and pulled himself to his feet. The world tipped on his axis, but he ignored it, stumbling blindly to his hall closet. When he reached it, he yanked the door open and slumped to his feet. His body felt depleted just from that minor exertion and he sat there numbly for a while, staring into the pile of books, mustering either the strength or the resolve to continue.

He didn't know what he would do with what he found. Either the gun would be there and he had imagined the whole ordeal at the store or the gun would be missing and he had imagined leaving it behind. Whatever the scenario, the proof of his stalled progress was evident, and whatever the scenario, a young boy was dead. What he had done sickened him, his stomach twisting from guilt. It wasn't the killing; he had never been particularly married to Batman's rules concerning the ethical treatment of baddies. But this guy was young and probably just a pawn—the circumstances of his death vaguely reminded Jason of his own, and then he had to bow his head into his knees, clutching his ears with both hands as the raw sound of screaming resounded through the apartment.

The tortuous wail finally subsided after an hour, five seconds, ten years—Jason didn't know. It petered off into wet, hacking sobs, the sound of which left him feeling exposed and embarrassed. He rubbed the back of his wrist over his eyes: there were tears there, hot and slick on his cheeks, and the taste of salt was thick on his tongue. He gagged and coughed, the grief was choking him—he thought about his bones so pure and white under his too pale flesh. He wished they would disintegrate into dust and carry his body far away, weightless and unburdened.

Jason started scratching his arms, since returning from death his skin had always felt tight and stretched and itchy, no matter how small his body continued to be. He dug his nails harder and harder into his arms, not stopping when the metallic scent of iron permeated the air. He wanted to see the bone—the 40 plus fractures. The pain was his redemption, the reminder that his skin wasn't wax and his blood wasn't ice slurry. He wasn't scared, he had experienced the nothingness once before. On the bad days, he thought he might prefer decimation to the languid nothingness that composed his new life.

Soon, his depleted energy stores ran out and he sat there panting, his fingers slicked with red. It stained his clothes, the floor, and stray drops flecked the pages of a few of the closest books. His forearms were shredded, the skin swollen and angry. He sat there, staring into the self-inflicted wound, and wondered how many more times he would have to start back from square one. How many times would he have to dig himself from his grave before it stuck?

He hated Dick for reminding him what it was like to be lonely. He hated him for reminding him what he was missing out on. He knew the affection the Bat family offered was nothing more than a seductive ruse, a bartering tool traded in exchange for being a good soldier, for not asking questions, for all the things Jason had never been good at, but still, he found himself craving it. Dick was wrong if he thought Jason's pride was what had caused his death. In fact, it was his voracious need for acceptance—for love—that had spurred his actions.

Jason inhaled to steady himself. Maybe it was best not to know what was in the closet. Maybe he should just burn the whole place down with him inside and end this meaningless existence. He felt bad that whatever or whomever had brought him back from the dead had wasted their power on him. He wasn't smart like Bruce Wayne or vibrant and congenial like Dick Grayson—he was just a stupid kid, raised by the streets and parents that didn't love him. He didn't know how to live up to expectations, he had only ever failed to meet them.

Perhaps that was the meaning behind the gun. He was a failed experiment, and now he was expected to terminate. The thought didn't panic him, the memory of his first death left him paralyzed in fear, but the circumstances had not been ideal. He imagined what it would be like to put his mouth around the cold barrel of a gun. He would aim for his brain stem, sever all his synapses in one brilliant spark of electricity. He wouldn't have to know his name then, not his family or his history. He wouldn't even know nothingness, but it would know him—he would be eternally rocked in its numb, tenuous embrace.

Jason could taste dirt on his tongue as he reached forward and pulled a handful of books into his lap. His blood soaked fingers stained the covers, but he didn't care. He reached for one of the biggest volumes, _How to Stop Worrying and Start Living_, and slung it over his shoulder. The spine of the book hit the wall and then fell to the hardwood with two loud thuds. Jason paused and blinked again and again, trying to process if the sound reverberating through his ears was accurate. Why would the book make that kind of noise?

He glanced over his shoulder and the sight chilled him. The air in his nostrils turned to ice, it stung his eyes and froze his lungs. There was a handgun on the floor behind him—a different one from before—resting blandly to the right of the book it had been hiding in. The pages were carved out, the edges ragged and crude as though the indentation had been made in a hurry.

Jason wanted to laugh, he wanted to scream. This was a hallucination brought on by guilt, not for having killed, but for not really caring that he had. It was his personal telltale heart, but comprised of steel and polymer instead of warm muscle and sinew. He grabbed for the firearm and fumbled to grip it, the biting metal burned his hands as though it were coated in acid. The weight and the feel were too solid to be a manifestation of his mind, it was real, but the significance escaped him.

Jason lunged at the remaining pile of books then, tearing the volumes apart page-by-page, cover-by-cover. His hands were marred with innumerable paper cuts but he didn't care, he was possessed. Blood flecked pages floated through the air, carpeting the hallway like a morbid ticker tape parade. In the end he found five guns total, plus three boxes of ammo. He moved to the couch, the guns splayed out on the coffee table like a murderous buffet, and sat there wide-eyed, rocking back and forth, scared and confused and nauseous and gone.

The air was thick with the musky scent of ink and blood. Still, all Jason could smell was the hard-packed dirt. When his mind re-emerged, it brought with it anger. He wanted to rip his apartment apart, to feel the glass of every light bulb break beneath his fingers, to smash each plate and disembowel each pillow until his home looked as broken as he felt.

Instead, he half-crawled to the kitchen, stumbling through another episode of vertigo. He found the phone on the counter and flicked open the contacts. It was no longer empty, now it had three entries: Bird, Rob, and Penny. 'Cute,' he thought as he slammed the phone down on the yellowed laminate. The screen flickered but didn't go out, so he slammed it again and again until the screen shattered and the phone fell into two pieces. He found what he'd been looking for then, he felt distantly pleased with himself for having guessed it.

He dug the small microchip—a tracking device—from the entrails of his battered cell. He didn't know who might have done it, there were so many possibilities. Dick, Talia—they both had motives—or maybe it was like Dick suspected and some baddie had figured out his identity and was using him for—for what? Revenge, to get to Batman, just for the sick satisfaction of obliterating the remaining faculties of a half unhinged undead boy?

Or maybe the events were all unrelated. Maybe he had bought the guns in a disassociated stupor and the tracking device was just an attempt by someone to keep him from doing worse. He didn't know, and he didn't trust anyone, least of all himself. He did know how to go about finding answers, though. He might've been a failed Robin, but he knew enough to manage this.

He knew it was going to involve a visit to the Manor, but he would do it. His rage had finally found a target, and while it unnerved him, it gave him drive. He was scared, he was angry and trepidatious and despondent and a myriad of other things, but for the first time in a long time, he knew he was alive. That realization was immense, it both weighed on him and uplifted him. It was a vital feeling—one that most people took for granted—and now it was his. He dropped to his knees in the kitchen, mind distant with planning, holding his rediscovered purpose to his chest like a warm gun.


	3. Chapter 3

Jason picked up the remote and put it back down. He brushed a hand through his hair, drummed his fingers on his knee, and took inhale after inhale of deep, steadying breaths. It was Thanksgiving. The hours counting down to this moment had been excruciating. He didn't want to go to Wayne Manor. He dreaded facing down the disapproving stares and covert judgments hidden behind clipped, courteous words.

Jason got up for what seemed like the hundredth time and walked to the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror. He patted his hair down, trying to tame his persistent bedhead, before sighing and relenting to the unruly curl. He was a portrait of messy hair, dark, ringed eyes, and prominent cheekbones, and that's just how it was. His gaze looked dead—even to himself. It annoyed him that his progress wasn't more evident and that his appearance belied his haughty attitude. Reckless over-confidence was his defense—had always been his defense—and he feared entering enemy territory without it.

He had never been able to abide the duplicity of the very rich. Jason hadn't grown up in a world of subtlety or solicitous sugarcoating. In his world, people said what they meant: if you ripped someone off, you got beaten to a pulp, if you hurt someone's family, you got the same back, and if your parents hated you and wanted nothing to do with you, they made it clear. People in his community didn't depend on silence to teach lessons. The unmitigated reality was often harsh, but as Jason grew and experienced the jealousy and torment that accompanied unstated feelings, he had come to appreciate knowing where he stood.

Now his life was comprised of mystery and hidden meanings and uncertain motives. It was disorienting. He hardly knew himself most days, so how was he supposed to unearth the connotations behind every word and action of his tight-lipped former family? Bruce was the great detective, not him.

And as if their reticence wasn't enough, there were the inconsistencies with what he had been told. Dick had claimed Batman cared about Jason, yet the Joker was alive. Certainly, that truth had to outweigh any other asserted emotional reality. Bruce had prioritized his own moral code over retribution for his son's demise. The fact that he maintained that kind of self-control when faced with the death of one he supposedly loved was unthinkable. There was only one possible conclusion, a deduction so uncomfortable and embarrassing that even Bruce was loathe to admit it, instead opting to bury it beneath shovelfuls of excuses and hard-packed dirt: he never cared about Jason. Not as a person, anyway. He knew him as a symbol, as Robin, Boy Wonder: good humored, even-tempered, and perpetually cheerful.

Jason could never embody those things, though, not without emotional support to overcome his past experiences. The feelings of worthlessness when he acted as Batman's sidekick had been immense—every time he was reprimanded, every time he craved affection but was denied, he covered his pain with aggression and arrogance and an unhealthy obsession with retribution.

Bruce could never understand Jason's actions because he had never tried to know him. Instead, he had expected him to be docile and pliant as a marionette on tightly wound strings, and when he had failed to fit the mold left by his predecessor, Batman had cut him loose. Sometimes, on the darkest nights when his death loomed so close and material, Jason wondered if Bruce wasn't a little relieved, even happy that he had died.

Jason shuddered and rubbed a hand over his face. He avoided those thoughts most times, instead opting to push them behind anger. It was self-preservation. It was the only way he knew. Not that they didn't all deserve his resentment. He remembered the first time he had been told life wasn't fair. He was young, maybe five or six at the time, and his Mom had told him so when he had complained about missing a school trip. They hadn't had the money, his Mom had blown it on drugs, not that he knew it at the time.

He'd mostly ignored her words—he was young and obstinate and certain that he was deserving of at least some kindness. Now he realized how wrong he had been. Life _wasn't_ fair—it was totally removed from any sort of justice system. It trekked forward with no care or awareness of its inhabitants.

Jason turned on the sink and splashed some water on his face, trying to wake himself up, to liberate himself from thoughts of the past. He tried to imagine what Thanksgiving with the occupants of the Wayne Manor might look like, but he couldn't make it past Bruce. He could see him in his mind's eye, severe and foreboding and a million miles away. Jason had seen his face on the news many times since his resurrection—both in costume and out—but still he struggled to visualize him. His mind couldn't quite conjure that look—the one that humbled him, but uplifted him, that warmed him in an instant, but left him colder than before.

He couldn't even stand the thought of Tim, so he avoided acknowledging his presence altogether. Even the thought of seeing Dick or Alfred turned his stomach now that the numbing haze of concussion had passed. They were all too bright. Jason's edges were diaphanous and soft and unstable, but the Bat family was solid, glimmering light. To stare into their vibrancy put all his past pains into sharp focus, it made his eyes sting and water as though he had been peering into the sun and left the scorching taste of ash on his tongue.

Jason rolled his shoulders and trudged back to the couch, slumping into the lumpy cushions and leaning his head back to ease the tension in his neck. He knew not going wasn't an option; the need for answers outweighed his trepidation. There were five disassembled guns hidden in his baseboards and a nest of gutted, blood speckled books littering his hall closet. He wasn't about to play victim while they took root in his floor and sprouted into a bountiful, lethal crop.

He had already disposed of the ammo the day before in a half-crazed stupor. He'd slung them into the river one by one, skipping them across the foamy, amber surface like his father had taught him before he had decided parenting was a worthless chore rather than an inconvenient obligation. He whooped and hollered when they bounced more than ten times, not caring that it was four in the afternoon or that people were clearly watching. He was lost in his own world, transfixed by the targets blooming on the disturbed surface of the water, wondering how big the rings would grow if he threw himself in instead.

He stuffed the last bullet into his pocket. It burned his flesh with a silent fortitude. He didn't think he'd use it, he didn't want to die again, but it felt good to have it—like the ratty security blanket his Mom had shredded up to use as a dishrag when he was four. Having it reassured him that there was an end to the confusion and the anger and the fear. It was a symbol, a better one than he'd ever been as Robin. It encompassed many things, things that he imagined most people—the Bat family especially—would never understand.

His stomach growled during the walk home so he stopped at a stand and bought himself a chilidog. It tasted greasy, unhealthy, and just as good as he remembered, but he only made it halfway through before his stomach started to cramp. He ducked into an alley then, crouching with his back against the wall, smoking a cigarette to assuage his nausea. The sun was setting and dense shadows stretched over the city, bringing with them a blanketing quiet.

Jason closed his eyes and inhaled the soothing smoke. The streets were somewhat more vacant than usual. He figured it was a combination of the bitter cold and the upcoming holiday. Most people were probably miles away visiting their families, far from the bleak depravity that was Gotham.

"Cold night, aye, kid?" A voice interrupted. Jason's eyes shot open and he straightened up as an old guy trudged up the street towards him.

"Same ol'," Jason shrugged, taking one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and stamping it beneath his shoe.

The guy gave a knowing laugh, "been living here all my life and still not used to it." He said, blowing on his hands and rubbing his palms together. "Mind if I bum a smoke?"

"You sure? I hear it's a nasty habit," Jason said sarcastically, proffering his pack.

The guy smirked and took a cigarette. "Yeah, the old lady's always nagging me about it."

Jason flicked on the lighter and held it out for the man. He let it burn longer than necessary, studying the guy's face in the wavering flame, wondering if his features might spark a memory. He knew a john when he saw one: there was the smell of alcohol on his breath, the lack of a wedding ring, the nice suit, and the fact that he was wandering down deserted alleyways and chatting up young boys, but nothing about him looked particularly familiar.

"Yeah, these nights get real cold," The man said again, sucking on his cigarette and sighing.

Jason stuffed his lighter and soft pack back into his pocket. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but—" he started to walk back to the street, but the older man grabbed him by the arm.

"Can't you keep an old man company, at least till I finish my smoke?" He asked. "My own kids never even talk to me, anymore." He continued. Jason's skin crawled under his touch and his stomach burned with disgust and latent rage.

"Wonder why." Jason said snidely, wrenching his arm free.

"C'mon kid, I'll make it worth your time. How does a hundred sound?"

"It sounds like you're fucking scum," Jason spat.

"Fine, two hundred." The guy said, voice growing dark and lustful. "Most kids 'round here will give it up for twenty, but you're worth it. I fucking love bad boys."

Jason kept walking, fists at his sides, the familiar anger stirring inside him. "Fine, that's fine." The old guy called out after him, "I'm sure there's another slutty kid willing to take my offer."

That made Jason pause, turn on his heel, and charge back towards the man. "You touch a soul tonight and I swear to god you'll wake up in a hospital without your dick."

"No need to be jealous, sweetheart," The man teased, flicking his cigarette at Jason's face.

The butt barely had time to singe his cheek before he sprang forward, grabbing the guy by the collar and using the momentum to slam him into the brick wall. He punched him once, twice, three times, teeth clenching harder and harder as bones cracked and popped beneath his fist. The guy started whimpering apologies at some point, but Jason ignored him, continuing to pummel him until his face was barely recognizable beneath the swollen flesh and blood. He thrust his knee into his crotch then, hoping the blow did permanent damage before dropping him to the floor with a sickening thud.

He kicked him in the gut for good measure, but the guy didn't react. Jason didn't think he was dead, but he wished that he were. He wished he'd brought a gun with him to finish the job.

Suddenly, Jason found himself in the present again, staring at the water stained ceiling of his apartment. He slumped forward and stared at his hands in his lap. He could still feel the wet blood on his skin, but all he saw when he looked was his own pale flesh. His knuckles were scraped from the encounter, he wondered if Bruce would address it.

Finally, he shook himself from his stupor and walked to the kitchen to check the time on the oven. It was annoying not having his phone, he hadn't been able to contact anyone to tell them to expect him today, and that slightly unnerved him. Then, there were the small annoyances like not being able to set an alarm or easily check the time. He sort of wished he hadn't smashed it, but the gesture had made him feel triumphant, so he didn't totally regret it. These days, it was rare to have opportunities to feel in control.

It was almost seven. Jason hadn't been able to ask what time they were having dinner, but he remembered it being served at eight on the dot when he was Robin. He figured if he left now, he'd get there fashionably late. All the better for avoiding uncomfortable conversations.

He grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and stuffed them in his back pocket, stopping by the bathroom to appraise himself one last time, before giving up on his appearance and moving into the hallway. He locked the door—a seemingly pointless habit at this point, but not one he could easily abandon—and turned the knob three times before feeling mildly satisfied and heading down to the street.

He had to walk a few blocks before finding a taxi to hail. They were always somewhat sparse around this side of town and he didn't have a phone to call for one. When he did finally locate one—an old, rusty number with a missing hubcap—he settled into the seat and folded his arms over his chest, curling his body so close to the window that his forehead almost touched the glass. He hated public transit, the loss of control was still so daunting—to be hurtling through space totally at the mercy of someone else's will…Jason had never considered himself to be controlling—certainly not as bad as Bruce—but still, it unnerved him.

He had the guy stop a couple miles out from the manor. It was partially for liability purposes—protecting his own identity and that of the Bats—but the truth was he had sweaty palms and an uneasy stomach and he needed a break from the jolting, confined cab.

Jason kicked listlessly at loose rocks as he made his way up to 1007 Mountain Drive. Wayne Manor loomed large and vaguely threatening in the distance. It had never looked particularly welcoming to him, even as a boy when such luxury was new and exciting, the size of the place had always unsettled him. He remembered that first night in what was later to become his bedroom in the new home. He didn't sleep at all—every creak and moan of the settling structure left his heart racing. There was no lullaby of roaring engines and bustling traffic to comfort him, the size of the room seemed to swallow him whole. He wished he could call out for company, but his hubris wouldn't allow it, even then. So instead he curled himself into a ball, shivering and small and attended only by his ghosts.

Jason concentrated on his breathing as he neared the gate. His heart was pounding—from anger, fear, or anticipation—he didn't know, and the ambiguity troubled him. He didn't bother to press the buzzer noting his arrival. Instead, he just flicked off the camera and folded his arms over his chest, waiting for the chime that indicated the doors were opening. He didn't have to wait long, not even a full minute had passed before they creaked open, and Jason stuffed his hands in his pockets and started up the road—resigning himself to his fate.

Dick was already standing on the doorstep by the time Jason made it up the winding pathway. "You didn't call," He said, half jogging up to Jason and wrapping his arms around him in a hug.

Jason's skin crawled under the contact. "Yeah, well…" He shrugged his pseudo brother off, suddenly feeling extremely awkward. "My phone got messed up, turns out it wasn't hammer resistant. Really should've double-checked the warranty."

Dick raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "How's your head?"

Jason sighed and rolled his eyes. "Can you please not do the whole brotherly act thing?"

"It's not an act," Dick insisted, gesturing for Jason to follow him inside.

"Well, whatever it is, it's stupid." Jason said, eyes fixed on the door. He contemplated leaving, but the weight of the bullet in his pocket reaffirmed his purpose for being there, so he steeled himself and walked into the expansive front room. "It's fine."

"What?"

"My head. It's fine." He could hardly hear his own words over the sound of his rubber soles on the fine marble floor.

"Oh," Dick said, his face softening. "Good. I'll check your stitches after dinner."

"No need," Jason muttered, his muscle memory kicking in and leading him towards the dining room.

"Wait, Jay." Dick said, grabbing him by the forearm. Jason jerked his hand away

reflexively, trying not to tremble from the unsolicited touch. If Dick noticed, he didn't let on. "I need to tell you something before we go in there."

"Save the love confessions for another time, Dickie-bird."

Dick laughed, "I think I could do better."

"Have you seen these chiseled good looks?" Jason picked up a framed photo on a nearby console table. In it, Dick and the person he presumed to be Tim were seated on the floor on either side of Bruce in his armchair—all three enveloped in wrapping paper. They wore matching Christmas sweaters and dorky hats and only Dick seemed to be truly enjoying himself. It made Jason feel awkward and out of place. He shuddered and quickly put it back. "Death really agreed with me."

"I think puberty probably has more to do with it."

"So you agree, then?" Jason smirked, turning around to lean against the table. "About the good looks, I mean."

"In your dreams, Jaybird."

"You're breaking my heart here," Jason winked, trying to seem as cavalier as possible. "So what's the big news? You're knocked up, aren't you? Who's the lucky guy?"

Dick rolled his eyes. "Not that it matters, but I'm single at the moment."

"What, Babs and Kori finally wised up and realized they can do better?"

"Not quite..." Dick's shoulders seemed to sag under the pressure of what was left unsaid. He didn't lose his trademark Dick Grayson smile, but it suddenly seemed less blinding—dulled by the passing of time and the weight of innumerable losses.

"Anyway," Dick said, shaking himself from his momentary daze and stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to warn you: Bruce isn't here. He had to head out this morning for—"

"Save me," Jason interrupted. He hoped he didn't sound as disappointed as he felt. "Glad to see he's just as good a father as ever. He's finally started reading the parenting books, hasn't he?"

Dick gave a sympathetic half smile and put his hand on Jason's shoulder. "You know if you want to see him, all you have to do is say the word."

"Like hell," Jason ducked away so he was out of Dick's reach. "If he wanted to see me, he would."

"None of us even knew you were coming," Dick argued. Jason knew Dick thought Bruce made a shitty parent, too, but he couldn't help but defend him. Jason understood the impulse. He'd had it once, too.

"For fuck's sake, I'm not just talking about tonight," Jason seethed.

Dick's body language moved from defensive to understanding. He looked like he wanted to draw Jason into his arms, but he resisted, to Jason's great relief.

Jason took a deep breath, pushing back the anger, the pain, and the unending reverberant screams. He rolled his shoulders and looked up at the ceiling moulding. "Don't worry, I wasn't exactly going to cry myself to sleep over it."

Dick looked relieved the conversation hadn't taken a more violent turn. "Oh, you're back to using your diary, then?" He teased.

"Well, the pillows were getting waterlogged, so…" Jason shrugged, he laughed a little. The noise sounded strange to his ears. "Anyway, it's probably better this way." Jason said, unwilling to let things get too personal. "This isn't exactly a social call."

"Yeah, I figured as much." Dick smiled knowingly. "But I'm still glad you came, Jay. I know he would've been, too."

"Ugh, cram it with the sappy shit already."

Dick sighed dramatically and shook his head. "Such a teenager."

"Such a gross old weirdo," Jason rebutted.

"Hey, leave Bruce out of this."

They both laughed at that.

"So I it you have some information for me?" Jason straightened. He was anxious to get what he had come for so he could get the hell out of this place. He could feel his ghosts surfacing more and more as every second ticked by, and he desperately needed a smoke.

Dick gave a half smile. "You could say that, but—"

"But?"

"Why don't we make a deal?"

"Some psychos are potentially out to kill me and you're thinking of blackmailing me with the details?" Jason whistled. "Colder than Mr. Freeze."

Dick looked wide-eyed as he shook his head in denial. "It's not blackmail, I just—I don't know," He paused and shrugged. "I thought it might be nice if we could catch up. You know, pretend to be normal for once. Just for dinner."

Jason opened his mouth to respond, but Dick cut him off. "For Alfred," He added quickly.

It was a low blow and he knew it. "I'm not sure you even know what normal is, Circus Boy."

It wasn't a "no," and Dick looked pleased. "To be fair, my life was a lot more normal back then."

"Seriously?"

"I've been to space, dated an alien—I spend most of my time taking down over-powered super villains, and you…"

"I'm the undead." Jason finished for him. "Touché."

"Look." Dick sighed. "Bruce isn't here. Let's leave work at the door for once."

"You just don't want me to tear apart the new kid."

Dick looked up the hallway and then back to Jason. "You're not wrong."

"I'll play nice, okay?"

"Tim's been through a lot, we all have, just—"

Jason slammed his fist on the console table and sent the framed picture clattering to the floor. "I said I got it."

A flash of worry crossed Dick's face, but he masked it quickly. "Okay," he said, then took a step forward. Jason presumed it was to pick up the fallen picture, so he turned his face away, the symbolism of the act too much for him to stomach. Instead, he felt a hand on his cheek. He jumped involuntarily, startled by the tender gesture.

"I'm glad you came." Dick said, and Jason could tell from his face that it was true.

"You're ridiculous."

Dick looked like he wanted to say more, but he just nodded. "Yeah." He brushed Jason's hair out of his face and then removed his hand. "We should probably go."

Jason wanted to dig his nails into his skin and rip away the flesh that still tingled warm and wanting from Dick's touch, but he pushed it down with his feelings about Bruce and his death and all the other things that were too painful to address. "I remember how pissy Alfred used to get when we were late for holiday dinner."

"That's nothing. What about the reaming Bruce would get when he forgot a birthday…" Dick shivered.

"I swear, he's like the Lady Shiva of sarcasm." Jason agreed. "But sans the costume."

Dick covered his eyes with a grimace. "Now _that's _terrifying."

"I'm sure whatever you're discussing is of great importance," Alfred's voice sounded from the dining room, "but perhaps the two of you could spare a moment to help Master Timothy set the table."

"Sure thing," Dick called as the two passed through the threshold into the warmly lit room. Jason stopped in his tracks. He watched as the person he recognized from poor resolution newspaper photos placed polished silver forks on the left side of every plate. He swallowed thickly and his heart froze in his chest as the savory smells of dinner gave way to musky dirt and a familiar droning scream.

He didn't know what he was expecting: the black hair and blue eyes weren't really surprising, considering Batman's creepy fetish for collecting Robins that looked like miniature clones of himself. This kid couldn't be much younger than Jason—maybe just by a year or two, although he wasn't certain. He didn't know if the time while he was dead counted towards his age or not, so he didn't address it. Still, there was no way this kid could be mistaken for him. Tim was short and slender, even with Jason's weight loss he was still broader than him, and where Jason's features were sharp and rugged, Tim's were soft and vaguely feminine. He looked smart, and cultured, and just generally like he embodied everything Jason never could or would.

Dick must have turned back, because he put a reassuring hand on Jason's shoulder and motioned towards the new Robin. "Jason, Tim. Tim, Jason."

Tim didn't smile or try to get a handshake. He didn't introduce himself at all. Instead, he just looked up, nodded, and then continued in his chore of setting the table. Jason appreciated that, even though he still hated him on principle.

"So glad you could join us, Master Jason." Alfred said, interrupting the awkward encounter.

Jason jerked his face up to the old butler, the screaming in his head giving way to the dulcet tones of Christmas music. "Y-yeah," he managed. It was lame, but Alfred didn't seem fazed.

"Perhaps you and Master Richard could assist with delivering the meal to the table."

Both boys nodded and began the transferal of platter after platter of delicious smelling food to the dining room. Alfred had already pre-plated their food, of course. Jason's stomach turned when he saw the huge portions on his dish.

"Eat what you can, I'll package the rest." Alfred said, as though he had read Jason's mind. Jason wanted to reply back with some smart-ass comment to cover his embarrassment, but it was Thanksgiving and he hadn't seen the butler in years, so he just smiled gratefully.

Dick and Tim were already digging into their meals, Dick regaling details about his latest mission while Tim interjected with excitement and awe in all the right places. They looked like brothers, and it made Jason feel both jealous and sick in turn.

"So how old are you, anyway?" Jason interrupted right when the Nightwing in Dick's story was about to deliver a lesson with a well-placed escrima stick. He leveled his gaze at Tim, feeling mildly satisfied when the replacement wilted under the attention.

"Si-," Tim started to answer, but his voice came out high and squeaky so he cleared his throat and started over. "Sixteen."

"Kinda scrawny for sixteen." Jason picked apart a roll and put a piece in his mouth, letting it melt on his tongue.

Tim's cheeks were burning red so Dick put a hand on his shoulder for reassurance. "Don't worry about it, Babybird, you've got plenty of time to grow."

"Not if he eats it, first." Jason said, flicking a piece of bread off his plate and across the table.

Dick opened his mouth to reply, but Tim beat him to the punch.

"I won't," He said. He sounded certain and that pissed Jason off.

"What makes you so sure?" Jason asked.

"Batman's learned from his mistakes," Tim replied quickly. "He's not the same as when you knew him."

Jason stared at him for a moment, blinking, before leaning back—hands clasped over his belly and eyes closed in an uproarious laugh. His throat cracked under the pressure—his lungs dried out from cigarettes and gunpowder—and hellfire spilled out.

"You don't know what he was like after…" Tim hesitated. He stared at his plate and then balled his fist and took a shuddering breath. He looked tense, as if he had been expecting this moment where he would need to defend himself and his position as Batman's sidekick. "He needed—_needs_ a Robin." Tim said, lifting his head again to stare into Jason's lifeless eyes.

"Batman needs a therapist." Jason slammed his fist on the table, and the cutlery jangled in accord. "What he doesn't need is to suck another stupid kid into his bullshit."

Tim worried his lip but held his stare. "I—I knew what I was getting into."

"Oh, that's complete bullshit!" Jason argued, voice lilting in a half laugh. "You think that you can just put on some stupid as fuck scaly panties, flip around on buildings, and punch bad guys out and nothing will ever touch you."

"No." Tim interjected, gaze hard and resolute. "I'm not like you. I know the risks. I—I've experienced them firsthand."

There was something in his eyes then—an understanding of grief that Jason recognized from seeing it on his own face in the mirror. The synchronicity of it enraged him for reasons he couldn't fully grasp and suddenly, he wasn't looking at Tim anymore. Instead, he was staring down a younger version of himself. A small boy—bruised and broken—choking on his own blood while pulling his battered body across the floor to save the mother that had renounced him to this fate. And why? Out of desperate naïve endearment towards the woman that had given birth to him, or was it to prove to Batman that he could be good—_was_ good? Or maybe it was neither of those things. Maybe it was all just to prove to himself that—despite the shitty cards he had been dealt, despite the sidelong looks and the whispers about his bad behavior—he was worthy of love. Jason didn't know for sure anymore. Whatever reasons he'd had, they had been blown away that day in a flash of light and throttling heat.

There was a residual fire still burning a hole into his gut, singeing his throat and tongue with smoke. Jason wanted to tell Tim, 'time won't stop because you die. People will keep eating and fucking and having babies and complaining about stupid things like pop stars and bus schedules. The world won't care that you're not in it, and neither will he.' Jason wanted to wrap his hands around the kid's slender neck and teach him the lesson first-hand.

He didn't, though, because when he started to lift his fist, Dick's hand was there—wrapped around his forearm—cold and firm. "Jason?"

Reality returned in chapters. First, there was Dick, too sympathetic and forgiving for his own good. Then there was the expensive table, decked out in an ostentatious presentation of food and fine china. And lastly, there was Tim—stood several steps back from the table—confused and pale and worried.

Jason didn't reply, he didn't know how to laugh this off, so he just fell into his chair and grimaced his way around a bite of turkey.

"Sorry," Tim said. He sounded so vulnerable and it really wasn't fair. It wasn't his place to feel bad—it wasn't his pain to appropriate.

"Yeah, you should be," Jason said, struggling to swallow down the turkey with his dry throat. "Because you're a _sorry_ replacement for me."

Tim looked uncertain if it was a joke or not, so he cautiously took his place at the table again. "I wasn't trying to replace you, Jason."

Jason gave a half-hearted shrug, "That's good. You should keep your ambitions realistic."

Tim smiled a little, his eyes alighting with the challenge. "By the way, I don't wear those anymore."

"Huh?" Jason asked, scooping a small bite of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

'The scaly—erm—bloomers, they got traded out for pants."

Jason's face twitched and he held back a laugh. "Well thank god for that. Wouldn't want to see your pale ass chicken legs in those things."

"Hey, I bet Tim's chicken legs would look adorable" Dick intervened.

"Dick, don't be weird." Jason said, pointing a finger at the older man. "It's your fault I spent half my childhood running around Gotham with a killer wedgie."

Tim chuckled and Dick looked affronted, though his eyes belied his amusement.

"His fashion sense has always been awful." Jason continued, looking towards Tim. "Tell me you know about Discowing."

Dick opened his mouth in shock. "That was a great costume, I don't know what you're talking about."

Jason snorted and almost choked on his water. "Oh c'mon, just admit it was bad."

"Starfire seemed to like it just fine." Dick smiled a little, as if recalling a fond memory.

"She's an alien." Jason pointed out.

"It was pretty bad," Tim admitted, and Dick reached across the table to ruffle his hair in mock indignation.

"Yeah, understatement."

Dick pointed his fork at Jason. "I'd like to see you do better."

"Maybe you will."

The room seemed to quiet a little and Tim placed his forkful of green beans back on his plate. "Does that mean you're thinking of—"

"Don't know." Jason said quickly, cutting him off. "Maybe."

They were all silent then, the unanswered question hanging heavy over them, ambiguous in intent. It was a threat, or maybe it was Jason's last vestige of hope. He didn't know, and that was the truth. Jason didn't know if returning to the masked vigilante life was what he wanted. Most days he didn't even want to get up in the morning; most days he didn't even want to be _alive_, let alone traipse around town, tracking down villains only slightly more unbalanced than himself. Still, he remembered what it had felt like the first time he donned that tacky uniform and domino mask: that tremendous feeling of being strong and powerful and untouchable. He wanted that again. He was fairly certain his experiences made it so he'd never feel the pure and perfect invincibility he had as a kid, but still, he craved it.

Jason pressed the gravy from a piece of turkey with the flat side of his knife. "Anyway, if Wiz Kid's hypothesis is correct, it might not be up to me."

"About that," Tim started.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want, Jay." Dick interrupted. It was probably meant to be comforting, but to Jason it felt like a plea. He imagined things were easier for them without the wild card street kid on their team. He doubted if Tim ever ran off on his own, if he ever delivered a hit or two too many, or contained the kind of latent malice that would lead people to believe him capable of pushing a rapist off a window ledge.

"What I don't want is to be treated like some fucking damsel in distress." Jason ground out.

Dick looked offended, "you're my brother—"

"Can you _please_ stop saying that?" Jason snapped. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper. "You barely know me. You don't get to pretend we're best buds just because I died and you feel bad."

"That's so far off base."

"Is it?"

"Bruce adopted you," Dick reminded him. "If nothing else, that makes us family."

"Family?" Jason pushed himself from his seat and flattened his palms on the table. "Are you even fucking serious right now? You left me in a fucking hospital for a _year_ without so much as a 'howdy do!'"

"Yeah, I know, Jay. I get it. We screwed up, okay?" Dick leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hand. "We really royally fucked up. We did. But—there's not exactly a manual on how to deal with –"

Dick stopped to comb his hand through his hair and take a deep breath. "Try to look at it from our perspective: you were back from the _dead_. Even in our line of work, that's not exactly an everyday occurrence. And not to mention you had a terrorist surveying you at all hours." Jason opened his mouth to argue and Dick put up a hand to stop him. "Which, yeah, isn't your fault." Jason huffed and slumped back in his seat.

"We did what—we did what we thought was best." Dick's gaze was so earnest that Jason had the urge to either turn away or punch him. "Not just for you, but—for the situation."

"Gee, thanks for sharing."

"Trust me," Dick sounded tired. "I wish the truth was different. There are a lot of things I'd change it I could." He glanced at Tim who was staring unblinking at his water glass. "If it helps, things around here haven't exactly been all hunky-dory."

Jason slumped back into his seat and scrubbed his hands over his face. "Poor baby."

"Yeah, okay, I deserve that."

"No shit."

"You have every right to be mad."

"Oh boy, permission to emote from Dickie-bird himself. Does that make me a real boy now?"

Tim cleared his throat and both Jason and Dick stopped mid-fight to look at him. "Sorry to interrupt, but maybe it'd be better if we just went over the case."

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing back the words that lay heavy on his tongue. His skin was crawling and he looked down at his hands, surprised to find them solid rather than fuzzy and indistinct. He had been drowning in resentment and fear, and Tim's suggestion had buoyed him. Any idyllic, repressed fantasies he'd harbored about reuniting with the Bat clan had come crashing down around him as soon as he'd stepped through the threshold of Wayne Manor.

He didn't need their sympathy or any pathetic simulations of familial love. All he wanted was to get the information he came for and get the hell out of this house, to run and run and run until his lungs burned and the memories that lingered in every looming portrait and familiar creaking floorboard faded into the buried abyss with his demolished coffin. "Yeah," He said, pushing his chair back. "Sounds good to me."

Dick looked like he wanted to say something more—to argue—but in the end he relented. "Fine." He said, standing. He looked disappointed and Jason hated that it made him feel guilty.

"So, what, are the baddies after me or not?" Jason asked as he followed Dick to the study.

"Still unclear," Tim said, watching patiently as Dick changed the time on the old grandfather clock to 10:47 and pushed open the hidden door.

Jason rolled his eyes. "Fabulous." He whistled as he descended the stairs. The sound echoed across the expansive space. "Place is bigger than I remembered."

Dick shrugged. "You know Bruce—always renovating."

"It's not all bad," Tim continued, following his own train of thought. "We've got a few potential leads."

Tim sat down in front of a plethora of giant computer screens and Jason situated himself in a chair near him. "Do tell," he said, leaning his elbow onto the desk.

"I'm most interested in the identity of the woman."

"Blondie?"

"Yeah, she shows up on the tapes, but not clearly. There's distortion right where she's situated."

"That seems a little too convenient." Dick said.

"You're not wrong," Tim agreed, pulling up the video on one of the screens. "The tape was probably tampered with." He started the video and Jason cringed as he watched the little black and white version of his past self slumped on the floor, the side of his face shiny with gray blood. "There's a couple frames where the distortion clears." Tim explained, pausing the clip just as the woman came into frame to wrap her hands around Jason's throat.

"It's just the back of her head." Jason deadpanned.

"Yeah, not the most useful," Dick agreed, tilting his head to get a better look.

Jason got up from his seat and walked closer to the screen, situating his face inches from the blurry figure. "Can't you, like, rotate the view around or something?"

Tim sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Despite what CSI might lead you to believe, this isn't magic."

"So," Jason continued, ignoring Tim's remark. "How exactly did the police not apprehend her?"

"Smoke bomb." Dick sighed.

"Of course," Jason half-laughed, as if to say 'oldest trick in the book.'

"Is there any way I could get some residue to test?" Tim asked, turning to Dick.

"Why test a smoke bomb?" Jason asked.

Tim crossed his arms and squinted at the paused footage. "I'm not counting anything out. She's left her calling card somewhere, it's just a matter of finding it."

Jason followed Tim's eyes to the screen, to try and ascertain what he found so enthralling about the image. But—finding nothing—he turned his gaze back to the new Robin. "Why do you assume she wants to be found out?"

Tim raised his eyebrows and turned from the computer. "Isn't it obvious? She went after you. She knew that would get our attention."

"Maybe, or maybe it was just a coincidence." Jason shrugged. "Why would she want Batman's attention, anyway?"

"We don't know," Dick said. "Which is why it'd be better if you just stayed here till we figure it out."

"Tough shit," Jason breathed through clenched teeth.

"It probably has nothing to do with _you_," Tim reasoned. "It's just that you're—well—an easy target."

Jason bristled against the vaguely insulting retort. "So basically, I was left on my own for no goddamn reason."

Dick and Tim don't respond, but their silence said enough.

Jason closed his eyes and shook his head in micro-increments. "She's probably working for someone."

"What makes you say that?" Dick asked.

"I don't recognize her—I'm pretty well-versed on the guys and gals that would like to have our heads on a platter." Jason replied, resentment edging his words. "Anyway, she didn't seem the type to mastermind that kind of scheme."

"'Not the type'?" Why? Because she's attractive?"

"I'm not a fucking idiot," Jason snapped back. "I might not be a nerdy kid genius, but I've been doing this since I was a kid. I know a thing or two about profiling."

"I'm definitely not counting that option out," Tim stepped in, surreptitiously dismantling the argument by directing the conversation back to work. "Of course, the list of people that would like to mess with Batman isn't exactly short. It's easier to start with her and work our way up."

Jason took a sharp breath when a memory flitted unbidden through his brain. "She said something about being lied to."

"What?" Dick asked. "You only just now thought that'd be important for us to know?"

"Excuse me, princess. I had a bottle broken over my head, my memories aren't exactly crystal clear."

"In what context?" Tim asked, swiveling around in his chair to look at Jason.

"What do you mean?"

"Being lied to—what was the context of her saying that?"

"Oh," Jason said. He had a visceral memory of those circumstances: he had killed the boy and she was flipping her shit over it. He didn't want to say that to Tim, though. The judgment already rolled off him in Dick in waves. "I guess about me being able to put up a fight."

Tim hummed and turned back to his computer screen. "So she's working for someone. Okay. Now we know for sure."

"So what about the kids then?" Jason asked. "What's their involvement in all this?"

Dick leaned against the edge of the counter and folded his arms over his chest. "Seems like they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I wouldn't exactly call them innocent." Jason replied, unconsciously touching his bandaged head.

"Yeah, but I'm not totally sure they had control over their actions," Dick said.

"You think they're—what? Being brainwashed?" Jason sounded incredulous. "They seemed like normal teenagers to me."

"No, Dick's right," Tim said, clacking around on his keyboard. "According to their parents, they were out of town for skiing over the break. They even filed a missing persons report. And anyway, they don't have a motive."

"They lied to their parents, big deal. Their motive is that they're asshole teenagers."

"Maybe." Tim agreed. "We need to find the car."

"Why?" Jason asked.

"Because," Tim explained patiently, "if it's stowed away somewhere in town, then your theory of them being stupid teenagers causing havoc for fun is more likely."

"How much more likely?"

"Not much, but it gives us somewhere to go."

Jason drummed his fingers on the desk and stared up t the frozen screen. "Aren't they available to question?"

"Not exactly," Dick replied. "They can't speak. Or won't—I don't know, it's weird, like they're in a catatonic state or something."

Jason whistled. "Geez, I didn't think they got thrashed that hard."

"It's not that. At least, I don't think it is." Dick said, looking at Jason with a measuring glare. "I've _seen_ people with concussions, I've had plenty myself—the way they're acting…it isn't the same."

"Well, that's convenient." Jason rose from his seat and started pacing aimlessly.

"It just adds another piece to the puzzle," Tim shrugged one shoulder. He pulled up images of the three boys on the far left screen. They appeared to be yearbook photos—all three boys were dressed in collared shirts with stiff but warm smiles. Jason was struck by how normal they looked.

"Hey," Jason said, absentmindedly touching his neck. "Where's the tattoo?"

"Tattoo?" Tim asked.

"Yeah, him," Jason said, pointing at one of the photos. "He had a tattoo on his neck."

Tim knitted his eyebrows and did some swift typing. "These pictures are pretty recent, I don't know anything about a tattoo. Do you remember what it was of?"

Jason worried his bottom lip and looked up at the cavernous ceiling. "Nah, not really, but I know it was there."

"Okay," Tim said and then nodded, "That's okay—just another lead to follow. We'll need to give the morgue a call."

Jason bristled at the mention and started walking again, looking anywhere but that odious projection of the life he had ended. Dick said something, but Jason didn't listen. His eye was caught by a beam of light, shining bright and blinding from a towering glass pillar. He was compelled towards it, his face going numb as he inched forward in slow motion towards the nauseatingly jaunty colors of his old uniform.

His face reflected off the glass, he could see his shoulders—thin—but still too broad to abide the small costume. He pressed his palm flat against the glass. He was distantly surprised to find it warm to the touch—from the lights, he knew, but he swore he could feel a pulse. 'My pulse,' his mind reminded him, because unlike the boy that had inhabited these clothes, he was alive.

There was a weight on his shoulder then, with maybe some words to go with it, but Jason didn't register it. He was thinking about how on a normal day, he was touched so rarely. "What the fuck is this?"

"I'm sorry, Jay," Dick said and pulled him back towards his chest. Jason didn't realize how close he'd been to the memorial. His breath had left twin circles of fog on the otherwise spotless glass surface. "I hate this thing." Dick said, and then, again, "I'm sorry."

Jason didn't respond. This was one of the many complications of life after death—coming to terms with how others appropriated his passing, how they interpreted it—made it their own. Before his death, he hadn't been so introspective. He hadn't had a reason to be. In many ways, the boy that had died a brutally un-poetic death that day in Ethiopia had remained as such—forever buried, changed too much by the circumstances of life and death to return in his unsoiled entirety.

Still, the idea that that boy who—despite their differences—_was_ him in all the essential ways that made a person, occupying a second life as a personal ghost for the man he had once hesitatingly adopted as a father, made his stomach churn with unrivaled grief. Not for that boy—the naïvely brash kid, stupid enough to think he mattered to the universe, that he was untouchable, unstoppable—but for the present Jason, the one whose life was overshadowed by the importance of his demise.

"I think I'm done here," Jason said. He was surprised to hear the words leave his mouth, crisp and clear. He was sure his throat was too dry to produce a sound.

"What, really?" Tim asked, and then, seconds later, "oh. Okay." Dick must have given him a look, or mouthed something—Jason didn't know, his eyes were still glued to the glaring green, yellow and red. He was still just trying to make sense of it all.

"Hold on a sec, I'll transfer my files to a flash drive so you can look over them at home. You have a laptop, right?"

Jason nodded. He was back in front of the desk, sitting in a chair with Dick at his side. He didn't remember getting there. Dick held his hand, running his thumb over Jason's knuckles, not commenting on the roughed up skin, but clearly fixating on it all the same.

"I fell down the stairs" Jason offered, unprompted.

Dick looked up at him.

"I'm bulimic and it's from shoving my fingers down my throat."

"Stop it, Jay."

"I've got an addiction to playing bloody knuckles."

"Jason," Dick took his hand away, seemingly repulsed by the conclusion he had already reached. "Did you hurt someone?"

Jason stared straight ahead and blinked, not a hint of remorse on his face. "He deserved it."

"That's not for us to decide."

"Why not?"

Dick looked distantly alarmed, but Tim interrupted before he could respond, handing Jason a skinny black flash drive and an ear transmitter. "You smashed your phone, right? This is just in case you need to get in touch."

Jason didn't ask how Tim knew about his phone. He was aware he was being watched. He knew Batman's identity; things like trust and privacy were no longer viable options for him. Jason thought about arguing, but he pocketed both items. It wasn't worth it to be petulant—he wanted out of this place. He'd just chuck the transmitter in the woods on his way back home.

"Thanks," he said, standing.

"Sure." Tim said. He looked hesitant, like he didn't know if he was supposed to hug him or acknowledge their parting in any way.

"Tell Alfie I said thanks for dinner," Jason told him.

Tim's mouth twitched, "maybe you should tell him yourself."

Jason looked over his shoulder at the monument to his death and smirked. "No offense, Replacement," he said, voice unhinged and pitchy, "but if I don't get the hell out of here I can't promise I won't take a crowbar to all of Batman's precious toys."

Tim looked a little taken aback, but he masked it well. Jason got the feeling he'd felt that impulse himself. He allowed himself to think that they were maybe not so different. He still hated him, though, if not for any other reason than that he felt he must.

"Can I drive you home?" Dick asked, trailing Jason as he made his way up the steps.

"Nah," Jason said, pushing his way out of the hidden door.

"Well, can I call you a taxi, at least?"

"I'll just catch one on the way," Jason told him, not stopping in his exodus.

"Jason," Dick said as they passed out the door onto the front lawn. "Jay," he repeated, catching him by the shoulder.

Jason jumped and whipped around. His nerves were charged with electricity—sharp and jittering. The sun had set hours earlier, and thick, blanketing darkness settled across the expansive grounds.

"I'd feel more comfortable if you stayed here," Dick told him. "At least for the night."

Jason had the mind to laugh, but he swallowed it down. "Not a chance."

"It's not safe," Dick said. "Not right now."

"I'll take my chances."

Dick made a noise like he wanted to say something more. Jason wished he would so he could tell him all the ways he was wrong, all the ways he and the rest of the Manor's inhabitants had let him down; but Dick was better at reading people than Bruce could ever hope to be, so he stopped himself.

Dick stuffed his hands into his pockets to control his impulse for a hug. Even in the darkness, Jason could see the changes in him. For the first time, Jason found himself wondering if maybe he had been the lucky one. "Take care, Jay," Dick said. "If anything weird happens…you've got my number."

"Me and half the women in Gotham." Jason snorted.

Dick smirked and Jason felt good about that. He waved over his shoulder as he passed through the gated entrance. The asphalt cracked under his feet, marking the distance between him and the place he had once called "home," but his mind was far away, inhabiting a reality that could have been but wasn't.

Jason being taught how to ride a bike by his Dad. Jason being cradled by his Mom after a nightmare, or laughing hysterically while running at a full sprint, fleeing from the beehive he had run over with the lawnmower. Jason going to college and meeting a nice young girl there, then growing old and thinking how very much she reminded him of his Mom. He imagined what his life could've been like if his Dad hadn't been a criminal or if his Mom hadn't been a drug dealer with a habit of sampling her wares.

He wondered, were his bad qualities really intrinsic to him, or had they been impressed upon him by all the people that had discounted him for his parents and his neighborhood and all the things he had no control over? What if it hadn't been the Batmobile parked on the street on that day so many years ago? They were all just moments, happenstances, colliding and melding and setting up a course of events that would culminate in his demise. It didn't matter that it was Jason, it could have easily been Dick or Tim or any other black-haired blue-eyed boy. His death was nothing but a warning, his life nothing but a symbol for Bruce's cause—a facilitator for his pain.

His mind was in that place that time couldn't touch when beaming headlights broke the darkness. Jason watched them, heart jumping to his throat as the spinning tires lapped up the distance between them. He barely had time to register that the car was headed towards him before contact was made. He curled his head into his arms, protecting his already battered skull and letting his body roll over the hood of the car. He was deposited with a rib-crunching thud back on the street, his body scraping with unspent momentum across that frozen asphalt.

He heard the car door open and close, but no one came to check on him. He moaned and coughed, the taste of blood warm and hematic on his tongue. He reached for his pocket, fumbling around for the button to activate the comm link. He thought about how he was glad he hadn't had the chance to dispose of it yet. His bones felt like jelly. He knew he should move himself from the street, but he couldn't manage it. The sky was spinning, dark and starless, as he succumbed to the pain. His senses faded one by one by one, each diaphanous layer of his being stripped away until all that remained was the screaming: shrill and ghostly and perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

Jason lay on the cold asphalt, staring dazedly at the ear transmitter that rested mere inches from his face. The thing fizzed and popped with activity, but he couldn't quite make sense of the words. His return to consciousness wasn't like his resurrection: this time around, he knew who he was. He didn't yet know why he was here, sprawled and aching on the sparsely illuminated street, but the events of his life remained—jumbled and disjointed but retrievable.

He swallowed thickly and coughed a little. He could smell blood and taste it in the back of his throat. His mind whirred to connect the dots. It restructured his timeline in seconds: the loss of his parents, his adoption, death, resurrection and subsequent abandonment, and then, finally, the headlights, the pain, the fucking car that had bowled him over.

"Jason?"

Jason sighed and tried to sit up, but the pain that lanced through his chest left him breathless, so he just reached for the transmitter instead. "Aren't you supposed to use a codename or something?" He wheezed.

"Jason?" The voice repeated, sounding relieved. "Er—yeah, we'll work on that. What's going on?"

For a brief second, Jason thought that the Replacement was just contacting him to shoot the shit. Then he remembered that he had been the one to reach out to him, presumably right before blacking out, though he had no memory of doing so.

"Jason?" Tim asked again. "You still with me? Di—Nightwing's on the way."

Jason thought about asking Tim how Dick knew his location, but of course he already knew the transmitter was bugged. The streetlights probably had cameras, too. It's just the way Batman was: paranoid as shit. He wasn't in the mood to hear the kid stammer out an explanation, tiptoeing around the truth like Jason was made of something more fragile than glass.

Jason coughed again and pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing at the heaviness in his chest.

"Maybe you shouldn't move." Tim said. Jason didn't ask how he knew he had.

"A car hit me."

"What?" Tim asked in disbelief.

"A car." Jason repeated, as though that would answer Tim's question.

"Did they drive off?"

"No." Jason said, then tipped his chin back. "Huh. That's weird, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Tim agreed. Jason could hear the sound of him clacking away at his keyboard again.

"Your concern is overwhelming," Jason rolled his eyes. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself into a seated position, letting loose a stream of profanities as his ribs groaned and creaked in response.

"Hey," the sound of typing stopped. "You okay?" Jason didn't respond, he was too busy trying to catch his breath. "I'm going to send an ambulance, okay?"

Jason started to snap at him, but his chest hurt too much to gather the proper breath for it, so he just rolled his eyes and let his head loll back to the black, starless sky. "Sure, send an ambulance for a dead boy. Great plan."

Tim's sigh came out crackled and indistinct from the small speaker. "Nightwing will be there soon."

"Sure he will," Jason said under his breath, too quietly for Tim to hear. He coughed into his shoulder and pulled his arms from where they were wrapped protectively around his chest. He braced his hands on the gritty, cold asphalt and sucked in a painful breath before sliding a knee under him. The effort left his body quaking in pain, but he ignored it, pulling himself up the rest of the way. He stood there for a moment, hunched in on himself, waiting for the world to stop spinning. His knee throbbed dark and biting, but he was pretty sure it wasn't fractured. He couldn't say the same for his ribs.

"What are you doing?" Tim asked.

Jason ignored him and hobbled over to the car.

"Jason, don't. We don't know if it's bugged."

"I won't ruin your precious crime scene with my blood," Jason huffed, saluting the nearby street light with his middle finger. "Scout's honor."

Tim was quiet for a while—watching him—or maybe weighing his response. It was something Bruce would do, and really, it made sense that Batman would make sure the next Boy Wonder was as unlike Jason as possible.

"Like you were ever a scout." Tim mumbled finally, sounding irritated. That made Jason smile, crooked and toothy.

Jason laid a hand gently on the car hood, slowly leaning his body against the dented steel. He doubted the vehicle would have a touch-activated bomb, but he wasn't going to tempt fate, either. Still, there was no way he could support his own weight with a busted knee and an elephant on his chest. He craned his neck, scoping out the interior, but it was hard to see with the deep shadows and the streetlights reflecting off what remained of the shattered windshield.

He limped towards the door, crunching shards of glass beneath his shoes. He wrapped his numb fingers around the car door and bent down a little, searching the interior again for any telltale blinking lights. Seeing none, he sucked in a breath and wrenched the door open. It opened easily, Jason almost stumbled backwards from anticipation, but nothing happened. The night was still silent—dark and undisturbed.

Jason knitted his eyebrows and ducked his head inside the car. There were dark blotches on the seats, standing stark against the light cloth interior. He pressed his hand into the driver's seat and held it up towards the light. It was hard to tell the color in the yellow illumination so he brought his hand to his face and smelled it. The scent was unmistakable: it haunted his dreams and stained his tongue with its bitter memory—the metallic, acrid smell of blood.

His stomach roiled and he leaned one arm against the car door, desperately wiping his hand off on his pants. He waited for his beating heart to calm and then moved to the backseat, he pulled the door open quickly this time, too possessed by thoughts of the past to worry about distant concepts like bombs and mortality.

He wanted to laugh at what he saw. The car floor was littered with bullets. Of course it was. He picked one up, still slick with river water, and rolled it around in his fingers before throwing it back in the pile. His bad knee gave out from under him and he slipped to the ground, coughing and gagging from the jarring pressure in his chest.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder but he was too busy trying to suck in air to worry about it. "Easy, Jay. Deep breaths," the voice coached him, rubbing small circles on his back.

Finally, the seizing in Jason's throat gave way. He spit into the grass, warm blood and saliva dribbling down his chin. Tim's frantic voice came into focus as he blinked, desperately pulling himself back to reality. "Jason? Nightwing? What's going on?"

"It's fine," Dick said loudly. He combed Jason's hair back with one gloved hand and used the other to wipe the blood off his mouth. "We're fine," he said again, quietly this time, so only Jason could hear. "Right?"

Jason swallowed, he wanted to nod but he worried it might be a lie. A thought hit him and he thrust his head up, eyes round and searching. The bullets were gone. He felt his stomach sink, his worst suspicions confirmed. He blinked heavily, shivers wracking his back.

"I don't know," he said. His voice came out cracked and hoarse.

"Okay, buddy," Dick soothed. Jason felt his breath warm on his neck. "Do you think you can stand?"

Jason nodded, but he didn't make a move to do it, so Dick pulled his arm over his shoulders. "We'll go slow, okay?"

Jason clenched his teeth and scrunched his eyes closed. Dick hoisted him up slow like he promised, but the change in position hit Jason like a ton of bricks, anyway. A whine escaped from his throat, soft and pleading, and Dick was in his ear, offering a steady litany of comforting words. Jason concentrated on his voice, laden with a kindness he had so rarely showed Jason when he was a kid.

He wanted to reject Dick and his easily proffered affection, but instead he used it as an anchor to fend off his darkening vision. Jason leaned his head against Dick's shoulder, trying to stay grounded in reality while Dick gave Tim a run-down of the crime scene.

"What's the make and model?" Tim asked, his voice was louder now, coming from the transmitter on the ground as well as Dick's own.

"Silver Honda Civic."

Tim didn't respond right away, but Jason swore he could hear him nodding. "That's the same as Antoine's car."

"That's not good news," Dick said. "There's blood, a lot of it."

"Can you get a sample?"

Jason coughed deep and chesty, a tributary of blood dripping down his chin, and Dick hesitated. "I should get Jay back."

"Okay. Right. I'll go out there and get them."

"'M fine," Jason said, though his voice came out completely slurred and unconvincing.

Dick brushed a hand over his forehead to shush him. "Stay put, Robin. I'll drop Jay off and come back out."

"But—"

"Keep an eye on the scene." Dick continued. "If anything moves, let me know. I don't want you out here until we know more."

Jason waited to hear Tim argue like he would've done, but instead the boy just paused and then gave a weak sounding, "okay."

"Good," Dick said, turning to Jason. "I came on the bike. Do you think you can stay conscious long enough to make it back?"

Jason nodded, though he wasn't totally sure. The color was draining from his vision—the world as stuttering and indistinct as TV static.

"Jason. Jay, stay with me." Dick called, touching his cheek and shoulder. Jason could sense himself being lowered to the floor, but his body was numb and he couldn't feel the ground below him. He was falling and falling, away from the pain and the confusion and the panicked yells of a voice that—for once—wasn't his own.

The following hours, minutes, days—he didn't know—passed in a blur. His synapses fired, he could feel the calloused fingers on his face and hear the aqueous murmur of a conversation, but the sensations were consumed by the burning in his chest and an insatiable fatigue. His return to consciousness wasn't like his resurrection: nothing about it was quick. He knew who he was this time, the pain was nowhere near as intense, but it was equally as disorienting.

"Jason," a voice sounded, penetrating his clouded thoughts. The tone was deep and warm, it harkened mahogany and honey and worn leather, yet it chilled him to the bone.

"Go away," Jason croaked, his chest felt tight, but he wasn't in pain.

"How are you feeling?" The voice asked him. _Bruce _asked him.

"Nnh," Jason groaned. He tried to sit up but a hand on his shoulder held him firmly in place.

"Don't," Bruce said. It wasn't a command. Just a statement—brusque and to the point—but Jason bristled, anyway.

"Can you open your eyes?"

Jason didn't even realize he hadn't. He opened them slowly, grateful that the room was only dimly illuminated. His eyelids felt heavy and gummy and each light shone with a soft, gauzy halo. "How long?"

"It's been almost a full day," Bruce said. He hovered over the bed like a shadowy giant. Jason just wished he'd sit down and not stand there, looking like he had to maintain distance between him and his former son for fear of breaking him further.

Jason nodded numbly, licking his scabbed, dry lips. "What did I miss?"

Bruce didn't reply, and then he did sit down, to Jason's great relief. "Maybe now's not the best time." He said, handing Jason a glass of water.

Jason grabbed it gratefully and took a hesitant sip. The cold water snaked down his throat and curled into his wanting belly. "Since when do you care?" He accused. Bruce didn't answer, so Jason took another sip, blinking slowly. "What time is it?"

"Four am."

"Don't you have to patrol?"

"I just got back," Bruce said, and that made sense. He smelled like sweat and car exhaust. So he had checked on Jason before showering, it would be almost touching if not for the context of his being here in the first place.

Jason cleared his throat and closed his eyes, he still felt so tired—probably drugged up from painkillers. "So what am I looking at?"

Bruce took the glass from him and set it on the nightstand. "Multiple lacerations, sprained knee, three broken ribs and internal bleeding. Leslie had to patch you up."

"Leslie," Jason said, his mouth quirking into a small smile at the memory of the staunch woman. "It's been a while."

"You were lucky Tim gave you that comm link," Bruce told him.

It felt like an accusation, like he blamed Jason for getting hit by a car. He had smashed his phone, sure, and maybe he should've been more alert or taken Dick up on his offer for a ride. He could beat himself up in a million different ways for what he should've or would've done, but the fact still remained that being attacked was not his fault. It was no more his fault than being killed in Ethiopia, but he got the feeling Batman didn't feel that way. It was probably a lame defense to shield himself from the simple truth that they were at the mercy of the universe—that sometimes bad shit just happened, and it didn't matter how you prepared.

Jason understood that in spades. His life had delivered that particular lesson in a varied assortment of packages. It made him feel slightly superior to Bruce that—in at least this one small, specialized area—he was the one that was more knowledgeable, more mature.

"Guess it's a good thing you made an upgrade then, huh?"

"Jason." Bruce warned.

"Just get out." Jason said, turning his head and closing his eyes. "I don't want to fucking talk to you."

It was petulant and immature, he knew, but he didn't care. He deserved to be irritable—he deserved it, but he still distantly wished Bruce would insist on staying, on talking to his former son and making sure Jason knew that—despite his behavior that said otherwise—he did actually care for his middle child.

Bruce didn't argue, though. Why would he, this was an easy way out. It was too simple to blame all the problems between them on Jason.

"We'll talk later," Bruce said. He put a hand on Jason's shoulder, leaving it there for only a second before pulling back quickly, as though the brief contact had burned him. Jason had to hold his breath to keep from choking on it.

Bruce left, but Jason wasn't alone for long. He heard the door reopen and someone new walk in—they tried to be quiet about it, but even with the meds numbing his senses, his old instincts stayed sharp.

"I need to go to my apartment," Jason said. It didn't come out as a whine, and for that, he was proud.

"You're on bed rest," Dick replied. "Doctor's orders."

Jason reopened his eyes and craned his neck to see Dick peering out the curtains "You're here to babysit?"

Dick looked like he might argue, but instead he let the curtain slip closed again and turned to Jason with an apologetic shrug. "Basically. Would you prefer someone else? I'm sure Tim wouldn't mind—"

"I don't fucking—I can't stay _here_," Jason repeated. He needed out of Wayne Manor with it's too high ceilings and echoing halls and family portraits that excluded him. He needed to return to where things made sense, where the rooms were small, the hot water only worked half the time, and the street noise drowned out his thoughts. He felt himself slipping away. It scared him. He had already lost years of his life locked inside his mind, unable to really think or feel or engage with the world. He didn't want it to happen again.

He didn't know how many years he had left to lose.

His face must have betrayed his fears, because Dick rushed to his side, that familiar sympathetic look on his face. "It's okay, Littlewing," he said, kneeling next to the bed and brushing Jason's hair from his too hot forehead.

Jason grabbed his hand. It was warm and only slightly bigger than his own. He tried to respond—to tell him to fuck off—but he choked on a sob, instead. He hadn't even realized he'd been crying. He blamed the painkillers.

Jason leaned his head into Dick's shoulder. He'd be embarrassed about it later, but for now he needed the comfort. He was tired—tired of a lot of things—of the worrying, the loneliness. He was tired of depending on himself for everything but being too jaded to depend on anyone else.

He fell asleep like that, lulled by Dick's ministrations. At least, he assumed he did, because when he woke up later it was Tim in the room, legs folded into an armchair with his computer in his lap.

"Why don't you just marry that thing?"

Tim didn't seem fazed. "I was trying to figure out who has it out for you, but if you'd rather hang around here—"

Jason held up a hand to stop him. "By all means, continue."

Tim huffed a little and gave a half smile. "You hungry? Alfred made soup for lunch—chicken and rice."

Jason shook his head and pushed himself up on his elbows. His chest didn't feel so heavy, but he still coughed a little from the movement—wincing at the sharp pains in his ribs.

"I wouldn't move too much," Tim warned.

"Or what?"

"It's not a threat, Jason, just…" Tim's face looked even more pale than usual, cast in the stark computer light.

"What's your story, anyway?" Jason asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Did B put an ad in the paper? Wanted: annoying nerd-boy with affinity for puns and punching out baddies?"

"Not quite," Tim told him, closing the laptop screen halfway so he could look Jason in the face. "I actually—I figured out that Bruce was Batman."

Jason's eyes widened a little, "Seriously? Bet the Bats about lost his damn mind."

Tim smiled a little, like he was recalling a fond memory. "Yeah, basically. I used to follow him around on patrol and take pictures. I've still got the albums."

"Huh. That's pretty impressive, I guess." Jason snorted. "And creepy." He added as an afterthought. "So, what, your parents didn't give you enough allowance so you had to snap pictures of the Bats for some pocket change?"

"No, I—" Tim looked at the ceiling, searching for the right words. "I guess I just thought he was cool."

Jason would've whistled if his lips weren't so dry. "Great role-model."

"Yeah, well, I realize that _now_."

"Things aren't so peachy in the Bats world?"

"Have they ever been?"

"Point." Jason snorted. "Yet you keep the albums."

Tim shrugged. "Nostalgia. You're in a lot of them if you ever, you know, wanted to see."

"I think I've had enough of those short pants to last a lifetime, but thanks."

"Seriously, what was up with those? Dick is one thing, but you think Bruce would know better."

"The guy's reaction to tragedy is to dress up like a Bat and fight crime, yet you question the short pants?"

Tim stared at him blankly and then tilted his head to the side. "Point."

"Mhm," Jason hummed. "So…you didn't like—jack off to them or or anything, right? The pictures, I mean." Jason asked, smirking when Tim's face turned bright red. "Because I know my thighs looked great in that costume. No judgment, but—"

"No!" Tim said loudly. "I didn't—I mean—that's not why I took them."

"Just pulling your chain, Bird Brains." Jason winked. "So you figured out Bruce was Batman and then you, what, blackmailed him?"

Tim adjusted in his seat, moving his feet back to the floor. "I was way too terrified of him to try something like that."

"Really? The guy's all theatrics. He's a shitty as hell father but he wouldn't hurt some random kid."

Tim's eyes snapped to the floor and he shook his head once. "You have no idea." He said, taking a wavering breath. "After you were gone, things weren't the same. Batman…came unhinged. I never wanted this role—I didn't want to 'replace' you, but…"

"Oh please," Jason huffed, rolling his eyes. "Who wouldn't want to be Robin?"

"Me." Tim said. His eyes were suddenly cold and serious. It was the best imitation of Batman Jason had seen in a while. "It was fun—and cool. I mean, you know..."

He combed his too long hair back. The style reminded Jason of Dick's when he was younger. "But," Tim continued, "It wasn't like it was for you. At least, I don't think. Batman was violent—he was unpredictable and possessive and it—_he_— was scary."

"Things with him are better now, they are, but," Tim shrugged, stopping himself mid-thought. "And anyway, I hated having to sneak around and lie to my parents—"

"Parents?" Jason asked, hoisting himself up slightly, surprised that Bruce would take on a protégé with family. He truly must have been desperate. "So you aren't an orphan?"

Tim's mouth quirked and then he raised the laptop screen a little to hide his face. "I wasn't."

'Oh,' Jason thought. 'Oooh.'

His first instinct was to be mad—at Bruce or at his own lack of tact. Jason's brain was too muddled by prescription meds and the events of the last week to figure out how to properly comfort a kid that he had spent so much time hating—that had swooped in and stolen his spot, and worse, had been better at it. But logic superseded his anger. Tim wasn't at fault—not really. Even if resentment still burned raw and real, it was hard to sustain in that moment, not with the boy looking so damn vulnerable.

"Shit." He said finally. "That's—_shit_."

Tim didn't respond, he had pulled his legs back into the chair and was staring at his computer screen again. Even from the bed, Jason could see that his eyes were distant, unseeing.

The room grew quiet, so unbelievably quiet and so quickly. Jason leaned back into the pillows. He couldn't deal with this.

He thought about sleeping. He was tired—his body depleted from pain and stress— but he was scared to close his eyes. Jason was alive, he knew that, but he still visited hell each time he gave in to his body's need for rest. Ghosts waited in his dreams. They were mostly ephemeral in his waking hours—omnipresent, but unless he was triggered, distant and ignorable. They loomed around him at all hours, circling their prey, waiting for the moment his defenses dropped and they could eviscerate him anew. His Mom, the Joker, Batman and even his younger self: small and bruised and broken—they haunted him through the night, provoking him with their urgency.

The apparitions were just an echo—a bad memory, but it was hard not to try to exhume a meaning, to pathologize. He knew because the doctors had tried. He knew because he had, too.

The guns were new, though. That worried him. There had been no guns at the scene of his death. Phantom crowbars, imagined bombs in his alarm clock and microwave—_those _things made sense. They weren't exactly the makings of a healthy mind, but they had assonance. Guns didn't. Sure, he had learned how to use them, had been taught that they were bad and seen them yielded for power and control innumerable times. Even so, they were just objects, albeit lethal ones, but no different in his mind than knives or batarangs or any other tool of the trade.

Of course, the possibility remained that they were real, but then the question was: _why_? To gaslight him? To punish Batman by reducing his forgotten son to mental instability, or worse, catatonia? And if that was the case, then why him? Surely, Dick or Tim or even Alfred would be a more effective target. Jason didn't need help in losing his mind. Most of the time, he felt halfway there already.

He knew he should tell the others about the guns and the bullets—imagined or not. That's what his doctors would've wanted him to do. There was also the possibility that they were vital to the case in some way, but this was a mystery he wanted to solve on his own. Whether from fear, pride, or some other ineffable but equally as powerful emotion, he couldn't produce the oxygen to properly explain how far gone he'd really been—how far gone he still _was_. Talking about it would make it real.

Either some whack job was fucking with him, using him to get to Batman, or his mind was slipping again. Neither was a reality he was ready to accept. The answers were in his apartment, looming in his floorboards, threatening to consume him. He needed to go there, to strip the place apart board by board and exculpate his sanity through hard steel and bloody splinters.

His fingers vibrated with the unspent anxiety.

"Tim?"

Tim didn't reply, but the sound of his typing stopped, so Jason continued.

"Do you think you could help me with something?"

Tim was silent for a long time. He had probably been warned about Jason—that he was brash and violent, given to unseemly means of handling Gotham's scourge. It was utter bullshit in Jason's mind. Maybe he'd deliver a punch or two more than Batman would've preferred during his tenure as Robin, but his allegiance was with the good people of Gotham—the innocent ones—not the bad guys. Hell, if a masked vigilante had come in and kicked his Dad's ass six ways to Sunday when he was wailing on him or his Mom, he would've been nothing but relieved and grateful.

Tim didn't really know him, though. He got the feeling he didn't really know Gotham, either, at least not like Jason did. So it made sense that he'd take Bruce's word for truth. It was endlessly aggravating, but it made sense.

Tim pulled down the laptop screen and sighed. "What?"

"I need to go to my apartment. I won't stay, but I—I need to check on something."

"No." Tim said quickly, pulling up the screen again. "No way."

Jason exhaled slowly. He knew it wouldn't be that easy to convince this kid. Everything about him was so measured, even the way his hair fell and his partially untucked shirt screamed careful planning. He doubted if Tim ever made a move without first performing countless computations.

"If I could manage it alone, I would."

Tim didn't turn his eyes from the computer screen, but he didn't start typing either. "What is it you need to check on so badly?"

"I have this nice houseplant, really brightens up the room. If I don't get home to water it…"

"I'm sure whatever it is, Dick or Bruce can take care of it."

Jason shook his head. "No, _no_, it has to be me."

"Then ask them to—"

"They won't listen."

Tim's eyes darted to Jason and then back to the laptop. "What makes you think I will?"

Jason didn't have an answer for that. Tim was right: he didn't have a reason to trust him—he didn't know him. But the kid was here, he was his only option, and so he persisted.

"Look," He said, relenting. "I have a good reason. I can't tell you why, you just have to trust me."

Tim didn't respond, he just started typing again. Message received: he didn't trust Jason, end of discussion.

"Fine, guess I'll just have to go on my own."

Jason thought Tim would ignore him, but instead he snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that."

So it was a challenge then. That was fine. Tim clearly didn't realize just how obstinate he could be. He slid his elbows behind him, pushing himself up while scooting his butt back in the same motion. He hissed against the sharp, oppressive pain in his torso, leaning against the headboard while he waited for his heart rate to slow again. He could see Tim through his watery vision, still staring at his laptop, but looking pissed beyond measure. It made Jason want to laugh.

When the throbbing had died down to a more manageable level, he swung his legs over the bed, bracing the wall with one hand as he stood. His knee wobbled precariously beneath him, but he persisted, taking small hobbling steps balanced on the ball of his foot.

"How ever will we catch you?" Tim asked, voice flat and humorless.

Jason didn't answer, he was too busy concentrating on breathing. It was difficult walking without a support to lean on, all of his weight seemed to center in his chest and pulled his stitches taunt and tight. He felt like he couldn't get a proper breath. He leaned down to rest a hand against the mattress but the shift made his knee shudder beneath him and he stumbled over his own feet, toppling ungracefully to the floor.

Jason sat there stupefied as a lurid red stain blossomed on his white t-shirt.

Tim hissed and scrambled to his feet. "I'll get Alfred."

"No," Jason yelped, grabbing the kid by his shirttail.

"Jason, you're bleeding," Time protested.

"It's fine," Jason told him, ignoring the stars in his vision. "Just a popped stitch. No big deal." He pulled his shirt up over his head, shivering at the exposure. The movement made another red rivulet fall from the small gap in his stitches.

All the color drained from Tim's face, an onlooker would've thought he was the one bleeding on the floor. It was surprising, but then Jason remembered that his parents had died. Maybe it had been recent, he didn't know, but he had a feeling that wound was nowhere near healed. He recognized it in Tim's glassy eyes. Ghosts: the manor was full of them.

"Can you grab me a rag or something?"

Tim nodded and half jogged to the attached bathroom, stumbling back with a first aid kit. He ripped open a packet of sterile gauze and pressed it gently against Jason's side.

"I can do it," Jason argued, taking the suture thread from Tim's hands.

"Why are you being like this?"

Jason was too busy threading the needle to answer.

"I can't help you get to your apartment."

Jason punctured his skin with the needle, carefully stitching the torn incision.

Tim watched Jason intently, wincing when he stuck himself. "Just give it a few days and I'm sure Dick—"

"It can't wait that long," Jason said, finishing off the stitch and gesturing for Tim to hand him another piece of gauze.

Tim complied, tearing open a fresh packet and proffering it to Jason. "I don't know if you noticed, but someone's out to _kill _you, Jason. You really think it's a good idea to go out there and make yourself a sitting target? I'm sure that's what they _want _you to do."

"I know that," Jason grunted, wiping off his sweaty brow with his forearm. "You don't think I know that?" His voice was rising in pitch, revealing his desperation.

"Then why?"

"Because," Jason breathed, "if they don't fucking kill me then I will." He hadn't meant to say it. He honestly didn't even know where it came from. It had been effective, though. Tim was staring at him with wide eyes, the look more one of understanding than the pity or shock he would've expected from Dick. Jason wondered if Tim sometimes felt the same. The thought turned his stomach to ice.

"I'm not trying to run away, okay? I'm not trying to dole out revenge or—or track someone down, or whatever. There's just something I need to see, and then I'm good. In and out."

"In and out?" Tim repeated, voice weary.

"I promise." Jason agreed, eyes wide and pleading. "Two minutes tops, that's all I need."

Tim leaned back on his heels, throwing his head back to the ceiling in frustration. He knew it was the wrong choice—that he would almost definitely get yelled at—but he pinched the bridge of his nose, anyway, and exhaled. "Fine."

"This is stupid." Tim huffed for the hundredth time. "This is beyond stupid. Why did I agree to this?"

"Because you're a good brother?"

"You said we weren't brothers."

Jason shrugged. "Yeah, well. I contain multitudes, Timmy."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Did you just quote Walt Whitman?"

"Is that surprising?"

"It's just…" Tim felt suddenly ashamed because, yeah, it had surprised him. "Nevermind."

Tim had his arms folded over his chest, alternating between looking out the window and casting quick, suspicious glances at Jason and the cab driver. He'd wanted to drive them out himself, but Jason had refused. All of Bruce's cars were too luxurious for his part of town—they'd garner too much attention. Plus, they were all completely bugged and traceable. Jason had no doubt that Bruce was going to find out about this excursion, but he wanted to prolong the inevitable as long as possible.

He had relented and allowed Tim to call for the cab, though. In his condition, he knew it wouldn't be possible for him to limp the couple of miles to town where they'd be able to hail one. Hell, Tim had had to bribe the driver with an extra $20 just to get him to allow Jason in the car—as pale and shaky as he was.

"So you're sure B won't be home for a while?"

Tim nodded, seemingly finding solace in retreading his plans. "Bruce has a meeting, he won't be home till this evening. Dick is with the Titans, and Alfred is running errands. We should have a good two hours—more than enough time." Tim gave Jason a piercing look as if to say, 'as long as you're not lying to me.'

"More than enough," Jason agreed. He had already asked Tim to give him the run-down numerous times, but he still felt a roiling knot in his stomach. It wasn't about Bruce, though. He'd endured his anger before, and he could do it again.

The seconds ticked down both too fast and too slow, driving him closer and closer to an unknown fate. He tried to reassure himself: whatever the outcome, this wouldn't be the end of him. He had dealt with hallucinations, had definitely dealt with villains looking to kill him, but none of those hollow reassurances did anything to ease the pounding in his chest.

His face must have revealed his feelings, because Tim looked at him and smiled weakly. "It'll be fine."

Jason huffed and reached over to ruffle Tim's hair. "Course it will."

The ride was over quickly. Jason stumbled towards the apartment complex entrance, yanking up his borrowed sweatpants as Tim paid the cab driver. The move up the steps was painfully slow with Jason sweating and cursing and leaning heavily into Tim's side. Despite his anxiety, Jason was relieved when they reached his floor and he saw his faux gold plated room numbers.

Tim stood impatiently behind Jason, looking back and forth down the hall as if he expected someone to come barreling through, guns bared. Jason ignored him, sticking the key in the jamb and feeling at least mildly satisfied that the door was still locked. He pushed it open, peering wearily inside before turning on the hallway light.

Tim looked surprised as he followed Jason in. "That's it?"

"What do you mean?" Jason asked, hovering awkwardly in front of the closet door and wondering how he could get rid of Tim.

"You just have a normal lock? No alarms or deadbolts or cameras or—"

Jason shrugged. "I had 'em at first, but after a while, didn't really see the need."

That was a white lie. The whole truth was that the first few months of living alone, he had struggled with the dexterity required for setting and disarming all his traps. Every trip home was an anxiety-ridden exercise in rushing through fine motor skills, and he ended up smashing more than a few expensive devices. After a while with no disturbances, it became more trouble than it was worth, so he had ditched them in exchange for one more solid step towards normalcy.

"You mind waiting in the hall? I'll just be a minute."

Tim's eyebrows arched towards his Dick Grayson haircut. "Why?"

Jason cursed quietly and leaned against a wall to support his aching ribs. He hoped he looked nonchalant, despite the drum line in his chest. "Because I have to hug Mr. Teddy goodbye and it's embarrassing." He smirked. "It's nothing dangerous, okay? I just need privacy."

Tim balanced on the balls of his feet, torn between trusting Jason and heeding his instincts.

"You can frisk me afterward, give me drug tests, whatever you need to do satisfy your paranoia, Timmy."

Tim sighed. He hadn't realized how much like Bruce he'd become. It bothered him more than he would've thought. "One minute," he relented finally. "I'll be counting."

"Yeah, yeah, don't get your short pants in a wad." Jason rolled his eyes.

"Never wore those!" Tim reminded him as he exited the apartment.

Jason exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when the door closed. All the warmth Tim's presence had supplied fled the room with him. Jason was alone. He thought he'd be acclimated to that by now, but still, it felt eerie. He wanted to run around the house, turn on each light, and disembowel the place until no stone was overturned, but time was of the essence. He ripped open the closet door and lowered himself to his feet, gripping tightly to the door frame.

He stared at the nest of books at his knees, his heart drumming maddeningly in his ears. His breathing revved up and he flexed his fingers compulsively.

"Thirty seconds!" Tim's voice sounded through the door.

Jason cursed under his breath and swallowed thickly for courage. He dug his hands into the heap, pushing books aside until he had revealed one long plank. He clawed at the edge—soft wood embedded itself under his nails, but he ignored it, completely captivated by the contents of the floor. The floorboard finally gave way, lifting up from the ground with the dank smell of earth and mildew.

Jason coughed on a breath. Moving his body backwards on hands and feet until he felt the wall pressed hard against his back.

There was nothing there.

His heart jumped into his throat. Nothing—but how was that possible?

Tim reentered the room then, knocking lightly out of courtesy before opening the door. "Jason?" He asked, peering his head around the closet door to see what he was doing. "If you wanted books you could've just asked. What's the big secret—your porn stash hidden in here or something?"

Jason didn't answer, he was shaking like a leaf, still trying to come to terms with what he had—or rather—hadn't seen. All of that had been in his head. It didn't seem possible. He still held out hope that maybe it wasn't, but the evidence was piling up against him.

All progress he had made up until this point felt meaningless. He knew he should take stock—that in reality, this was nothing more than a small setback, but he was so fucking tired of the "two steps back." Incidents like this made it that much more unfeasible for him to return to the fold, and the begrudging, undeniable truth was: he wanted to return. He wanted to be a vigilante again. In the absence of family, friends, or anyone that gave a shit about him, it gave him meaning.

"Jay?" Tim asked hesitantly. Jason's silence unnerved him, comforting people was Dick's expertise—not his. He put a hand on his shoulder, quickly retracting it when Jason started under his touch. For a terrifying moment, Tim thought he might dissolve into tears, but he seemed to steel himself—clearing his throat and pulling himself to his feet.

"Let's go," Jason said. His eyes were fogged over. Tim thought they looked dead. The realization shamed him.

Going down the stairs was easier. Jason went unattended. He seemed suddenly repulsed by touch and had shaken Tim off whenever he had tried to help him. Tim didn't mind. He led the way, taking the steps two at a time, eager to return back to the manor. He headed towards the exit to hail down a cab, but Jason grabbed him by the arm.

"Hold on."

Tim looked up at him, words dying in his throat as he hovered awkwardly in front of the mailboxes. A few minutes later, Jason returned, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes moderately more clear.

"What were you doing?" Tim asked.

Jason hobbled toward the street, not arguing when Tim slipped an arm around him for support. "Turning in my key."

Tim raised an arm for a cab, grateful for a short wait time when one immediately pulled up to the curb. He wondered what Jason had seen to spook him so badly as he helped settle him into the car.

"So…what are you going to do?" Tim asked once he closed the car door.

Jason turned his head so he was looking out the window, fully facing away from Tim. "What do you think? Find a new place, properly secured this time."

"In Gotham?"

Jason smirked, but there was no joy in his voice. "Trying to get rid of me?"

"No, I just—"

"Hey!" Jason said suddenly, bolting up in his seat. "Hey, hey wait. Stop!"

"Jason—"

"Stop the fucking cab!" Jason shrieked, wrenching the car door open before the taxi had even fully braked.

Tim ripped his seatbelt off, stumbling after Jason. The guy could move astonishingly fast for someone that had just had surgery a little more than 24 hours ago. "Jason, what—"

"Neck Tattoo!" Jason huffed, stumbling down the crowded city sidewalk.

"What?" Tim asked, trying to slip a shoulder under Jason's armpit, only for him to be shoved away.

"The fucking—" Jason panted, wheeling down an alley. "He's alive, I just saw—he's _alive_."

"Stop it, Jason," Tim appealed. "What are you talking about?"

"Where did he fucking go?" Jason asked whipping his head around and totally ignoring Tim.

"The cab's waiting, c'mon let's go." Tim grabbed Jason's hand and tried to guide him back to the street. Jason pulled back, but Tim held firm—heels digging into the ground. Jason yanked again, harder this time, and slipped out of Tim's grip. Tim managed to stay upright, but the momentum made Jason stumble over his feet and bump into the wall, a choked cry escaping his mouth as he slid to his knees and fell on his side.

Tim rushed to help, holding his shoulders down with his forearm when Jason tried to rise again. "No," Tim said through clenched teeth, gasping when Jason punched him hard in the ribs. For someone so thin, Jason was strong. He struggled beneath Tim's hold, blindly kicking and punching the air.

Tim straddled Jason's torso, careful to center all his weight on his upper chest, away from his stitches and broken ribs. "Stop it, Jason, you're going to hurt yourself."

Jason eventually did settle down. It didn't take long, but Tim felt the stress of those minutes had shaved years off his life. Tim eased his weight off gingerly, ready to apply pressure again if Jason tried to fight, but the teen was only half-conscious—mumbling incoherently about zombies and tattoos.

Tim realized he was shaking when he pulled himself to his feet. Jason's shirt was matted with fresh blood. It wasn't surprising with all the thrashing he had done. Tim knelt by his side and touched his cheek. The skin was hot beneath his fingers.

"Shit," He hissed, tears pricking his eyes. He had royally screwed up—he'd wanted to impress Jason out of some sort of misplaced hero worship, and in doing so he had put him in worse shape than before.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, swallowing thickly as he pressed the first speed dial.

The phone only rang twice before it was answered. "Tim?"

Tim tried to reply, but he choked on his words, the shame viscous in his throat.

"What's wrong?" Bruce insisted, dark panic edging his words.

"It's Jason," Tim managed. "He—he needed to go to his apartment. He's—"

"Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah," Tim stuttered. For a brief moment he was confused as to why that even mattered. "I'm fine, but Ja—"

"I've got your location, sit tight." Bruce intoned before severing their connection.

Tim exhaled and wilted slightly. He knew why he'd been cut short—Bruce didn't trust phone lines, no matter how secure Oracle promised they were. He hated using the cell, especially for work and family related matters, but Tim hadn't had a choice. Jason had insisted he leave the transmitter and the costume and his usual wariness behind.

Of course, he hadn't completely complied. Tim didn't like being caught unprepared. He was always two steps ahead: that was his comfort—his safety net. But he'd be lying if he said he hadn't felt a little excited at the prospect of getting closer to Jason and seeing Gotham from the perspective of the boy who had once seemed so open and messy and self-assured. Jason as Robin embodied so many things Tim wasn't, but wished he could be. He had never been one given to reckless vulnerability and closeness, but his recent losses had left him in an apathetic, aseptic limbo. He no longer felt the cruel sting of loss, but he didn't feel the visceral exhilaration of happiness, either. His laughs were lifeless wheezes, and his smiles felt like a death sentence.

Jason was worse off than him, though. Jason had trail blazed the path of misery; he had set the standard. Tim had looked up to him once— and still did, even if for no other reason than nostalgia. So to see the ever effusive and cantankerous Jason so enfeebled—laid out bleeding in an alleyway… Tim despised himself for it, but deep down, it made him feel a little better about himself.

Jason's mind seemed to bob against the surface again, emerging then submerging in endless dizzying cycles. He grabbed Tim's sleeve, too tired to bother trying to sit up.

"I had to call them, Jason, I'm sorry," Tim said. Jason thought he might be crying, but he couldn't be sure. "I'm sorry." Tim repeated.

Jason couldn't reply in his woozy state. His body thrummed with intermingled heat and pain. There was something soft under his head—Tim's lap, he realized distantly.

"'M so fuckin' sick of this," Jason slurred.

"Tell me about it," Tim muttered under his breath, glancing up at the sound of tires crunching across pavement on a nearby side road. For the briefest of moments, he thought it might be the Honda again, coming to turn him and Jason into roadkill. It was a stupid thought—the other car had blown up a few minutes after Jason and Dick had left the scene. Not that Jason knew. Tim had been sworn to secrecy.

Relief flooded through him at the sight of the familiar black Lambo. Bruce emerged from the car, his stature evoked in Tim an amalgam of relief and fear. He thought he could feel fresh tears prickling his eyes.

Bruce leaned down and put a quick, reassuring hand on Tim's shoulder. He must have looked more pathetic than he realized. "You were right to call me." He said. It was a lame accolade, but Tim would take it. He knew the censure was soon to come.

Bruce checked Jason's stitches, making sure the damage wasn't too bad, before lifting the boy into his arms. Jason had gotten a lot taller since his resurrection, he was closing in on 6 feet, and he had more to go if his huge feet were any indication, but in Bruce's arm he looked like a small child. He felt like one, too.

"I'm sorry," Bruce whispered in his ear. It sent Jason's mind reeling, because wasn't that his line? He swallowed his apologies down, though. He didn't want that perfect movie moment where they aired their grievances and then resolved their problems in one big conclusive hug. His problems were too complex for that, his animosity ran too deep.

It didn't matter, anyway, because the world was fading around him—giving way to a space so endless, black and familiar. It wasn't the abrupt loss of consciousness to which he had grown accustomed, but a gentle transition to sleep. He allowed himself to be lulled by the sizzle of tires on asphalt and Tim's intermittent sniffles, distantly hating that Bruce's presence made him feel so perfectly safe, but not caring enough to do anything about it.

When he woke again, he was back in bed. He would've thought it had all been a dream if not for the hushed argument occurring around him.

"Ease up, Bruce." Dick said. "Tim was only trying to help."

"And in doing so he almost got Jason killed."

"I know. " Tim winced, wilting under the weight of his guilt. "I'm sorry," he said for the hundredth time that night.

Dick spoke up again. "Jason would've found a way out of here one way or the other, at least he had someone there to help him."

"Tim should've helped him by contacting me, you, or Alfred. Jason is unstable—"

"Takes one to no one," Jason croaked from the bed. He'd meant to imply that Bruce was unstable. The wording wasn't quite right, but fuck it, he was tripping balls on some strong meds.

Dick was the first one to his side, mostly because he was the only one that fled to it. Bruce stood feet away, arms crossed and jaw set, while Tim hovered awkwardly at the perimeter of the room, wanting to disappear. He wished talking to the real Jason was as easy as talking to his memorial case.

"Welcome back, Littlewing. You sure put on a show," Dick smirked, pressing a hand to Jason's forehead to check his fever. "I thought _I_ was supposed to be the theatrical one."

"You're definitely the biggest diva," Jason said before pausing and reconsidering. "Actually, that title might belong to Bruce."

"Barely conscious and already slinging insults. You really outdo yourself."

Jason cleared his throat, he felt like he had been gargling glass shards. "I called Batman a 'big boob' the first time I met him, I'm just trying to keep up with 8-year-old me, really."

"Oooh, that's a good one, I'll have to remember it."

"Jason," Bruce started, finally walking to the side of the bed.

Jason turned his head away and sniffed. "I know, I know, save me the lecture."

"You're not to exert yourself until Leslie gives you the okay."

Jason was thankful that the drugs helped to temper his anger. "Oh yeah, how do you intend to stop me?"

"You're under surveillance until further notice."

"I'm not your fucking prisoner."

"No," Bruce sighed, wanting to brush Jason's hair out of his eyes, but balling his fist at his side, instead. "You're not, you're my son."

"Careful, it might start to look like you care."

"I _do _care," Bruce said. "You endangered yourself and Tim today."

"Please," Jason hissed, exasperated. "There was no danger."

"You don't know that." Bruce told him. He wasn't wrong, but it still made Jason bite his cheek in frustration.

"That's why," Jason said, clenching his jaw, "I want to train."

"What? Jaso—"

"No," Jason stopped him, voice firm. "I'll stay here, okay? I'll wait till I'm healed, but after that—after that I want to train again."

Bruce shook his head. "I don't know if that's wise."

"I don't care what you think!" Jason told him. "You've thought a lot of things about me that were wrong. This—this is my choice. I want to fight again. I'm not going to be a sitting target." Jason curled his nails into his palms.

"It's not my fault I died." He said, saying it as much to himself as to Bruce. "You can't keep blaming me for that." He blinked heavily, trying to quell the tears that threatened to fall. "I'm going to train. I am. I'll do it with or without you."

Bruce was silent, his breathing was even, but Jason could tell he was pissed. "You're in no position to be making demands," Bruce told him.

"And you're in no position to be calling me your son!"

It was a low blow, but it seemed to be effective. Suddenly, it wasn't Batman Jason was talking to anymore. It was Bruce—hurt and ashamed and desperate to repair the relationship with his former ward. This man could be reasoned with, this man would listen.

Bruce rolled his shoulders, looking everywhere but at the faces of his brood as he mulled things over. Finally, he exhaled, having reached a conclusion. "You'll rest till you're deemed well by a medical professional," Bruce said firmly. "Once you're healed, you can be on monitor duty with Tim until further notice. After that—we'll see."

Jason didn't move. He didn't want to appear too eager. Finally, he nodded. "Okay."

"Okay." Bruce said, turning to exit the room, before stopping in his tracks—thinking better of it. He knelt near Jason and brushed the black, unruly bangs off his forehead. "It's nice to have you back," he said quietly.

Jason didn't answer. His forehead burned from the touch, but he tried not to show it. He didn't want to be hopeful—he'd had hope once, and all it had brought him was grief and disappointment. Still, it was hard not to wish that things weren't as bad as they seemed—that the "one step forward" following his most recent backslide had come earlier than usual.

Bruce left then, followed by Dick, who exited with the promise of returning with hot chocolate. Only Tim remained, pale-faced and drawn.

"I'm sorry, Tim."

Tim only shook his head. Jason wished he'd just tell him off, he had enough problems of his own, he couldn't begin to try and tackle Tim's.

Tim rocked back on his heels. He looked like he was going to leave, but instead he opened his mouth. "Don't—don't do that again." He said, eyes sharp and indomitable. It was like getting a glimpse of the real Tim—the one not restrained by perfectionism and self-doubt.

There was a context there that Jason couldn't quite comprehend with his mind hazy from drugs, so he just nodded. "I won't."

Tim swallowed and tilted his chin back. He inhaled and raised his shoulders like he wanted to say something more, but instead he left, closing the door a little too hard in his wake.

Jason could understand his anger. He'd do something about it tomorrow, he promised himself; and after they made up, he'd ask Tim about the kid with the neck tattoo. He'd figure out who was behind this and he'd get strong again. He'd do it all, but first he needed to sleep—to let his body heal. He closed his eyes and settled into the pillows, wishing that fixing his mind was as simple as a good night's rest.


End file.
